Daymares
by jsfan4ever
Summary: When a serial killer blackmails Jack, Sam’s career is jeopardized as well. JS casefile, set mid S2
1. Daymares

Disclaimer: Ok, it's Hank's. This goes for the entire fic, that way I won't have to put in a disclaimer for every chapter...  
Fic Rating: T  
Pairing: erm... take a guess -g-

Something totally new. To sum it up in a few words: Jack, Sam, mid-season two. Which means no MS and definitely no Anne in sight. This entire fic is from Sam's point of view, but the casefile will definitely involve Jack. I'll try to update regularly, so you'll probably be hearing from me again soon…

Long story? You bet ; ) I guess there comes a point when one-shots aren't enough.

Mariel, what would I do without your expert eye? Thank you for your suggestions!

Daymares

Chapter 1 - _Daymares_

Day and night, she remembers. They're vivid memories of randomly spent time, of what people did, of who they used to be. Where they worked, who they knew, who they loved. She doesn't know how to refer to this. They're like nightmares, but she thinks of them more as daymares− which is worse, because you can't wake up from a bad dream if you're not asleep.

There's blood, and far too many faces. Sometimes they die, sometimes they simply vanish. She started this long ago, with a young man with unrealizable dreams. Then a man and his son went missing. Two days later, it was a housewife. A teacher. A policeman, a bank robber, a surgeon. All equally lost, all equally frightened, all waiting to be rescued, as if by some miracle found could be synonymous with saved.

The years have passed, and somehow she's ended up looking for the errant ghosts of an entire city. She can't escape them anymore, and where once stood a single silhouette now breathes a crowd, of men and women and children whose lives were in her hands. They stare at her from the white board, or from a file, but more often than not she meets with their memories in the streets, and sees them eating at a table outside that small restaurant near her apartment, talking and carrying out daily activities. They look real, except they're not, their lives have been carefully uncovered down to the last details, and their departing thoughts now reside solely in a box in a dusty archive room.

"He's young," she reflects when she's handed yet another picture, another life. He's young and missing and she can't detach her eyes from that innocent gaze.

"Do you know him?" Martin asks curiously, gathering his notes from their last team meeting.

No. Yes. Maybe. She might have caught a glimpse of him at the movie theatre, in a mall, aboard a subway. Or she might never have seen him at all, only he looks familiar because Jason, her first case, had the same light around him and the same desire to live inscribed on his face. She knows them all, even those who aren't missing yet. She sees them everywhere and asks herself who they are and where they're from, where they go shopping and what they do for a living. She wonders who would notify the police if they went missing, who would be worried.

She wonders who would miss them if they never came home.

She's paired up with Jack today. He doesn't look like himself lately. She doesn't know why. He's tired and agitated and she wishes she could look at him and not see it. That way she wouldn't wonder what's on his mind and whether he sleeps at night, and wouldn't think of ways in which, once, she could've helped.

"We're here," he says, pulling up in front of the high school Mathew attends. Jason, she remembers, used to go to a place like this, with the same parking lot and the same American flag floating in the chilly breeze. They've visited tens of companies and pizza joints and trendy nightclubs; they've paced through museums and houses and parks, and yet− yet there's something about this school that triggers recognition, that makes him turn to her. And it's written plainly across his face; he's thinking about another day, another case that brought them to a school similar to this one on an afternoon that wasn't so different.

Before he can say anything and before her expression betrays her thoughts, she steps out of the car. She doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want those memories back, because Jason won't be here when she walks inside a classroom and she doesn't want his ghost to implore her for another chance, another life on this earth.

"Martin," Jack calls half an hour later as they're walking back to his car. "I want you to make sure Mathew wasn't with someone called Ty Ruckart last night. The school principal says Ruckart was kicked out last month for bringing in a firearm. Apparently he and Mathew were seen together a couple of times... yeah, Ruckart with a_ t_. Thanks."

He slides behind the wheel and buckles his seatbelt, inserts a key, and sighs like he needs to clear his mind but can't quite figure out a way.

She tucks her hands in her pockets; takes them out, clumsily puts her notepad back inside her coat− she doesn't know what to do with her hands. Finally, she turns, feeling his gaze on her.

"We'll find him, Jack," she says in a whisper.

He starts the car with a small smile.

It's raining today, not snowing, but it's still cold, and droplets of rain splash on the windshield. She thinks about them− the droplets. How they fall too. How they fall from the sky and run down the glass and leave watery trails and how they'll end up down the sewer. Then they'll evaporate and they'll hang in the air and then, one day, they'll fall again.

They always fall.

o o § o o

He didn't go as far as staying with her during this stakeout. Danny's with her instead and although they exchange a few words from time to time, he doesn't try to joke. It's almost midnight and she's glad he knows what to say, because she couldn't bear Martin's or Vivian's small talk right now. 

The building in front of them is dark, the street empty, and the two combined remind her of another night and another stakeout. Awkward tones replaced by lighter ones, a case-related conversation turning more personal; and there was something about witnessing your supervisor trying to eat a hotdog properly that took the stress off a rookie's shoulders.

_Don't laugh, Samantha, you haven't eaten yours yet._

They'd talked and grown closer that night, and it's now that she questions all those hours they spent together; if perhaps she should have seen it coming, if she could have prevented it. It feels like a game of hide-and-seek these days; or a game of chess that draws to the end. It's like waiting for the last straw, the last blow.

Checkmate.

"It bothers you, doesn't it?"

She can't see his face completely, but he sounds cautious, like he knows he's walking on egg shells.

"What bothers me, Danny?"

He takes his time before answering, idly fidgeting with a button on his sleeve; a button she supposes is blue but that looks as dark as the rest of the car. "That he no longer talks to you."

A sigh. "Yes. Yes, it does."

She only talks because she knows he understands.

He observes his other sleeve. "Maybe he doesn't know how to do it."

She wishes it were that simple. But Jack knows how to talk to her and she knows how to talk to him. Maybe they just have nothing left to say, nothing left to share. And that's why she wants to run; because it's easier to hide in that semblance of paradise you've built to be unreachable; easier to leave and ask yourself later if for once, you shouldn't have.

"You know what's so cruel, Danny?"

"I know, Sam," he says slowly. "The fact that he's here and at the same time… he's not."

"Sometimes I think about quitting."

Danny abandons his sleeve to look at her. "But you stay," he tells her quietly. "We all do."

She stays, but she's blind. She's blind since she met Jack. Since they deliberately overlooked what should have been obvious from the beginning, all those signs they should've learned how to read. Perhaps it was fate, that one day they would end up doing more than just hold each other's gaze for too long. Perhaps she was destined to meet Jack, he was destined to meet her, they were both destined to find each other and fall together.

There's a half-open folder on the dashboard with information about their suspect, but it's too dark to read the words, to make sense of this case. Look for a person, find a person− or not− then fill in the paperwork, and then−

"I wish I could file it away. File him away."

Like words on reports, reports in binders, binders in drawers. File him away with a period and a signature and just one last look, one last glance into those dark eyes.

"No you don't."

She smiles bitterly, and reaches out for the folder. Mathew's picture is there along with their suspect's, and she doesn't need light to see his features, the twinkle in his eyes. This was a happy moment− and this is why she hates pictures. They capture an instant and make it eternal, but forget the life behind it. She wants more than a face; more than a frozen expression. She wants the sounds behind and the smell in the air and the movements of the photographer.

You can't sum up a day in a word and can't convey all your feelings in a keepsake and a two-by-three inches snapshot can't possibly mean as much as an entire life.

"Samantha? Do you want something to eat?"

She wants a hot dog. With a lot of mustard and ketchup and she wants Jack to be the one eating it with her. But he's not here and the vendor's closed and the only thing Danny can offer her is something from the vending machine across the street, so she shakes her head. She doesn't eat anymore; not much at least.

For a fleeting instant she imagines pizzas with pepperoni and green peppers and chocolate donuts with frosting− all the things she used to love. She craves something else now; craves a night with him or the taste of his lips, the angles of his face, the feel of his fingers on her skin; she craves the way his hand would brush against her cheek on a cold night like this one.

She thinks about him too much. She thinks too much, period. Of the white board that will never be white again; of guns and blood, Barry Mashburn and Anwar Samir and Annie Miller and those no one could save. The nightmares come back, and she's trapped, she can't escape the images, the visions, the memories. It's dark but she can't rest, she can't sleep.

She's awake and they're daymares.


	2. Skyscrapers

A/N - Special thanks to Mariel for going over this... twice... 

Chapter 2 - _Skyscrapers_

_Following day_

She has flashes. It can be a case, a person, a place, a small detail, and then she remains immobile, pen dangling from her fingers. A child, playing in the snow. Gloves, because it's freezing, icy flakes twirling in the air before they land on white-covered ground. An invisible obstacle, a knee scraped, a lesson learned.

_When I'm older, mom, I'll work in a big city with skycapers._

_Skyscrapers, Sammy. Skyscrapers because they're so high they scrape the sky._

The vision shifts. The Empire State greeting her every morning. A meaningful job, a team. First body, first night spent with her eyes open and the realization that the world was more messed up than her already messed-up vision of it.

_No one in their right mind chooses to work this job, agent Spade._

A new change, a new team. A new purpose− they can't all be gone. Not so quietly it didn't even leave a ripple.

Time passes, a year or two, maybe more. She's aged and the world looks as ugly as it did when she still believed she was so damn heroic she could save them all.

A window, a thin layer of ice. Arms encircling her, warmer than she thought possible.

_Happy Birthday, Sam._

A rulebook, a bench. A drop, a voice, a bookstore. Fear. She knows fear, the dormant fear that hovers above this city and infiltrates the world. She's seen it for herself, in kids, the last tendrils of their innocence shred before her eyes. She's caught glimpses of it in the gaze of some adults, unsure they would live to see the next day, the next war. She's seen fear hiding in a gun barrel, breathed it and tasted it and at some point, greeted death and forgotten she was supposed to live.

She tries to face head-on the harsh reality with that objectivity her shrink has been insisting upon for the past couple of months. _Forget the past. Think of the future. _She buries her childhood, her teenage years. But she can't bury her entire life, can't find a shovel to dig a hole that deep. That's where her story with Jack falls; somewhere between Heaven and reality, leaking through the cracks and holes of the earth, a series of moments that can't be grasped or touched, much less be buried.

"Hey beauty."

She jumps. "Danny!"

"Did I scare you?"

She refrains from rolling her eyes. "No more than usual…" She spots his empty cup, the tiredness in his stance. "Short night?"

"Tell me about it," he yawns. "I'm going for another coffee."

She sifts through some papers, retrieves the information she's looking for, and concentrates on it. She highlights what's important, what they might've missed. Mathew Charles McNeil. Parents deceased, one sister, currently sharing an apartment with another high school student.

"Samantha, did you and Martin check with the roommate?"

She looks up as Jack walks to the white board and adds another entry to the timeline.

"Greg? Yes, we saw him this morning. He seemed honest. He, uh, he said Matt was no trouble, that he's known him for a couple of years."

"What were his plans after high school?"

"Music College. Both his roommate and sister said he's been playing the piano for years, that he's pretty talented."

Jack caps the marker. "How was he planning to pay for College? I thought his parents died in a car crash."

"A scholarship?" she suggests. "Although I doubt he'd get one. His grades are good but not brilliant. That might be worth checking, maybe he needed money."

"NYPD just called," Martin says, walking in alone. Sam has yet to see Vivian. "They found Ty Ruckart. He went back home after a night out. Police have him in custody."

Oh, great. Ty Ruckart− the one she and Danny have spent five hours waiting for the previous night.

Jack checks his watch, deciding that they can pay him a visit, so Sam caps her highlighter and Martin waits for her to grab her coat. He spares a glance outside, picking up his sunglasses from his desk because it's now snowing. "Shall we play good cop, bad cop?"

They set off for the elevator. "Who gets to be on the dark side of the force?"

"Did you bring your lightsaber?"

She clips her holster to her belt. "Hey, watch out, Anakin."

Martin chuckles, the elevator coming to a stop. She steps out into the cold parking garage, making her way to the car and sliding behind the wheel. "So where's Vivian?" she wonders aloud.

"She went home. Reggie's sick, but she said she'd try to be back soon."

Be back soon. It's a funny choice of words. Soon… how soon is soon?

_I'll be back soon…_

She starts the car, remembers the gun. Hospital and beeping monitors, white walls, crimson blood and−

Wait. Rewind.

_Barry! Barry, I want to talk to you!_

No, forward. She shuts her eyes for a moment, half wishing for that memory to go away, and at the same time wanting to remember it forever.

The air outside is freezing, the interior of the car warm, a scent of coffee and leather in the air. The city's alive− shadows, silhouettes, sounds, frozen ice on the sidewalks watching as passers-by head for their respective destinations. This city… it never slows down. Not that day, not today, not tomorrow.

A visit. It's awkward, painful, the air filled with unease and regret and a quiet sadness that doesn't want to leave the bare hospital room.

_Barry. He made me realize some things. _

She holds on to what she has left− the wheel, the road, the badge in her pocket and her notepad that tells the storiesof souls that went missing and have been found thanks to her, to him, to what they've become. Only she can see the irony of it, that what they've lost between them has made it possible to find others. His voice rings in her ears, _Maria and I are going to try and make things work_, and it feels like being shot all over again.

Except this time, she can't even scream.

o o § o o

"It sounds to me like you _do _know him, Ty."

"I− no," their suspect stammers. "I never talked to him, man."

Martin exchanges a glance with Sam. "Then why did one of his teachers say you were seen together at school?"

"Oh _that_."

"Yes, _that_." They know what to say, where to prod, how to do it. "Did you just conveniently forget, or are you impeding a federal investigation on purpose?"

A second clicks past, filled with sarcasm. Sam decides it's time for her to say something− she definitely falls better into the good cop category. "You guys had classes together?" she asks casually.

Tyron turns to her. "No. But we were on the same basketball team a couple years ago." His eyes follow Martin's movements and he shifts in his chair uncomfortably. "We just played basketball. I swear we got along fine."

"If I ask your former coach, is that what he'll tell me?"

"I− I guess."

A look in Sam's direction is followed by a suspicious glance at Martin, who gets closer. "Why are you sweating? Are you scared?"

"No. It's hot."

Sam rolls her sleeves slightly, giving Ty Ruckart a gentle smile as if to say, indeed.

"I'm going to tell you what I think happened," Martin's voice is inflexible. "I think Mathew found out you were dealing some pretty nasty stuff to the kids in your school. And I think he threatened to rat you out, so you brought in a firearm to dissuade him. He didn't listen and had you thrown out of school."

"So you wait a couple of weeks in the hope that people will forget about you," Sam goes on, "And then you decide it's time to kick Mathew's ass."

Ty balls his fists, an expression of anger settling on his features. "No, it didn't happen like that. It wasn't his fault if I got kicked out. Look," he raises his palms, "He came to see me last week, said he needed a plan for some money. "

Sam scribbles it down. "What for?"

"Hell if I know, I didn't ask."

"What'd you tell him? Did you find him one of these crappy get-rich-quick plans, Ty?"

"Look man, all I did was help. He kept quiet about my business back in high, I owed him."

"What was the plan?"

Tyron sighs. "There's a bar down the street from where he lives. Marines go there when they're on leave, especially at the end of the month− you know, military pay. All you gotta do is dress as one of them. Get a uniform, a couple fake tags and pretend you belong there. You get some guys to drink, pay them a few rounds and they'll show you how rich they are."

"Really," Sam says, unimpressed. "And what were _you _getting in exchange for the plan?"

"A third of the money. But I never got it, I never saw Mathew again."

o o § o o

It's six PM by the time they get the call. Central Park, four inches of snow, a frozen body and an unexplained death. Martin and Danny have been sent home, but Vivian, who came in late, is still with them. The night is falling rapidly, projectors casting a bright light on an area circled with yellow tape.

"Jack Malone, FBI," Jack holds out his badge to the policeman standing there, rapidly introducing Vivian and Sam.

"You can go through."

Vivian and Sam stay back. A rapid question to the officer informs them that Mathew McNeil was found dead about an hour ago. Some nasty stab wounds, but nothing you don't see everyday in this city.

Sam quickly calculates that Ty Ruckart can't have been the killer: he was in custody at the time of the murder, and that's a rock-solid alibi.

"Any witnesses?"

"No." The sergeant scratches his chin. "But one of his army tags is missing."

Sam doesn't have the heart to explain that Mathew wasn't a Marine, just an unlucky kid who desperately needed money to pay for tuition.

"It could be anything," the agent goes on. He looks beaten, and Sam can only imagine why. This job… at times, it weighs on them like lead. "Gang attack, party gone wrong, serial killer, isolated murder… you pick. It's not like− hey, your boss looks like he's not used to seeing corpses."

Sam and Vivian both turn to follow his glance. Jack is standing immobile, an expression of dazzled horror on his features.

"Excuse me," Sam mutters. She advances beyond the tape, crossing the distance in a few strides. "Jack?" she asks hesitantly.

He stares at her in mute shock for a moment, opens his mouth to say something, but can't find the words. She glances at Mathew− sees the blood on the victim's cold face and the light that bounces off the crystallized snow on the eyelids. Macabre, but they've seen bodies before.

"You got an ID?" The inspector on scene is in front of them again.

A moment goes by before Jack reacts. "It's positive," he declares.

o o § o o

Her report sits on her desk, completed, and yet she feels no sense of accomplishment. It's just not right to hand it over to forensics and the CSI team with no answers at all.

Jack's door looms into view as she walks the length of the empty corridor to the elevator.

"Samantha?"

He uses her complete name, now. Maybe if she waits long enough, a few more weeks, a few more months, they can forget they ever knew each other, and he can call her agent Spade and she can call him agent Malone and then, she hopes, it will all go away.

She stops on the threshold to his office, the door-frame hard and solid against her left shoulder.

"I, er…" He runs his tongue on dry lips, and she hates that he can't speak to her anymore, not even on a night like this. He takes off his reading glasses, finally settling for, "He would have had it. The scholarship."

She doesn't know where he's going with it.

"He just wanted to be a pianist, he wasn't a Marine."

"I know," her expression softens. "I saw all the scores on his desk, he played waltzes. Strauss."

"And Chopin?"

"And Haydn."

She holds his gaze, and for a second she hears it. Liszt and Brahms and Tchaikovsky. Something soft and classical. Something too sad to be real, too beautifully intact for an evening like this.

"Jack," she steps forward, into his office. The light is dim, the hour late, and he just looks so lonely. She certainly feels that way. "When you saw the body, it was almost like… you knew who'd done this."

He sighs softly, as if he'd know from the beginning she would ask. "I−" he says, "It doesn't matter, I could be wrong."

"Well you should mention it in the file, it might help the CSI team."

"I doubt it would, they have enough on their plates already."

She knows how it is. A teenager with no parents found dead in Central Park after trying to extort some money. Not hopeless, but close. There are just too many cases like this; the result of the investigation will point at gang retribution and the case will be archived.

"You should try and get some sleep, Sam," Jack tells her.

"Yeah."

She bids him good-night, finds her keys and stares at them numbly with eyes that had begun to blur five hours earlier. She leaves his office and the silent corridors and empty space, shivering as the cool air outside hits her skin. It's dark in the streets, the buildings blocking out the moonlight.

She looks up. At the night, the scattered stars, the rooftops miles away.

_Skyscrapers, Sammy. Skyscrapers because they're so high they scrape the sky._

She wishes they could reach the moon.


	3. White picket fence

A/N - Jack's odd behavior will definitely be explained... Thanks for the reviews : )

Chapter 3 - _White Picket Fence_

_Following Morning_

Beep.

Distant, blurred, not at all part of her sleep.

Beep.

_Not mine, not mine−_

Beep.

_Okay, pick up the phone._

"Spade," she mumbles.

"What, no greeting?" The voice teases.

Eyes wide open, squinting in the darkness, she almost drops the phone. Letting her head fall back against the headboard, she fleetingly wonders if rules of politeness apply at five in the morning, then states fuzzily, "Eric− Long time."

"Yeah, I thought so myself."

She closes her eyes briefly. There aren't many things more interesting than her pillow right now, so she opts for sarcasm. "Don't keep me waiting, I could fall back asleep."

A pause on the other end indicates her that her interlocutor is slightly caught off guard. "I'm sorry to call so early," he says, and it feels earnest. "But I have something that might interest you."

She can't figure out what he wants, so she just fumbles for the light switch and asks, "Why are you calling?"

"We're investigating Mathew McNeil's death," he declares. She sits up. "Your name was on one of the reports we were given. I thought you'd like to know how he died."

He has her attention, now, but she still has more questions than answers. "Since when are you a CSI?"

"Since−" He stops and sighs, sounding beaten and not at all like Eric Keller. "It's a long story."

o o § o o

If life had treated them differently, they wouldn't have been here sipping lukewarm coffee while waiting for someone to go missing. Vivian would have been a teacher like her husband− she just had it in her, the patience, the kindness; and Martin would have been in DC. Danny, Sam thinks, would've been here anyway and Jack… Jack would have been home in time for dinner every night, would have gardened on Saturdays and gone to mass on Sundays.

She might've become the American stereotype herself, white picket fence and thick green grass, but somehow she'd ended up here today, going over cold cases.

"This one's good."

Martin gives Danny an appraising glance. "Oh, I don't know," he challenges. "My case isn't too bad either."

"Okay, let's hear it. Sam, you in?"

She looks down at her case− Trent Debridge, NY 7A-483794. "No, mine is…" she wants to say tragic. "Ordinary."

Danny waits for Vivian to shake her head in amusement before he lets his pen roll to the middle of the table. "I've got… a case that dates back almost ten years," he leans back into his chair. "Scott-no-last-name, nicknamed Poseidon because he has a tattooed trident on the left forearm. Small arms dealer, vanished into thin air after a bank robbery. Allegedly kidnapped− my guess is, he flew into the sunset with his dollars."

Martin chuckles, balancing the tedious nature of their task with humor. "Not bad. But here's what _I _found: Martha Allister, sixty-five, went missing about four years ago. Her mail was piling up− the glitch is, she'd emptied her bank accounts and bought a plane ticket to South America. So we have a trip planned, a missing Martha and an apartment with a collection of… chandeliers still waiting to be claimed by family."

Danny grimaces. "All right, Fitzgerald, cash or raise?"

"I'll take any offered cash," Jack walks in, eyes on the pair of them.

They all wheel around. Their boss, it seems, knows exactly what's going on when the team goes over cold cases. Piling a couple of folders for room, he draws a chair and takes a seat at the end of the table, then passes a picture to Martin, who is seated the closest to the white board. "Ryan Carthy, 27, United States Marine. He was on leave for the week, went for a run through Central Park at dawn and never made it back."

"Who reported him missing?"

"Someone named… Jarvis Douglas, according to the NYPD cop I got on the phone. He owns a dry-cleaning business on 67th street. Ryan lives there when he's not a sea."

"Is Douglas's record as clean as his business?"

Jack answers Danny's question with a smirk. "A couple of DUI's, nothing major." He gives them a few more details, then decides, "Sam, Vivian, I want you to talk to this Mr. Douglas. Find out if he's had any disgruntled employees lately. Danny, go over Ryan's phone records, family situation. Martin− you're with me. We'll find his friends, figure out what kind of trouble he might've gotten himself into."

"Any chance it might be related to Mathew McNeil's case?" Vivian voices what they all seem to be thinking. "The disappearances could be tied− Mathew was wearing a uniform and his murderer's still running."

Jack doesn't look fazed. "Until we find something that links these cases, they remain separate. Anything else?"

"Actually, yes," Sam informs them. "I know how Mathew died."

Danny and Martin hang back to listen and Vivian stops on her way to her desk. "Let me guess, crystal ball?"

"Something a little more scientific, Viv. I had a call from one of my contacts inside the CSI team," Sam opts for the word _contact. _It's a safe way to mention Eric, especially with Jack's gaze on her. "They found out Mathew was drugged before he was killed."

Martin searches his pockets for his notepad. "What drug?"

"It's something called… C15H11N3O3," she gives them the formula. Eric didn't have time to elaborate this morning, so she's left with this Chemist's double Dutch.

"Nitrazepam," Jack declares, much to her surprise. "It's marketed as Mogadon, in tablets of 5 or 10 mg, only on prescription. It's mostly… to treat insomnia."

Martin stops shuffling. "Why would someone use is as a drug?"

"It's a benzodiazepine, a psychoactive drug just like Rohypnol. A high dosage induces confusion, muscle weakness, a reduced alertness. Sometimes the side-effects even include vertigo, hallucinations, memory loss. In short, it turns people into easy targets."

Danny turns to Jack. "You know, you impress me," he says amusedly. "Where did you learn all that stuff?"

Jack's gaze darkens. "You don't want to know, Danny."

o o § o o

Though she has yet to see the white picket fence, Jarvis Douglas is the average, married American citizen. Thirty-one, a five-years-old son, blue jeans, a firm handshake and a combination of concern and incomprehension in his gaze because his best friend is missing and it's only supposed to happen on TV.

"Where's your wife?"

"Sleeping. She works the night shift, she's a nurse. I don't want to wake her up yet." He leans against the counter, answering their questions one by one. Yes, this was his parents' business before, yes, he called the police because Ryan is never gone for _that _long, no, he didn't notice anything unusual, and why do you need to see how much money I make every week when you should be trying to find my friend?

Patiently, Vivian explains that they have to investigate every lead, and Mr. Douglas resignedly offers them a seat while he searches for the right papers in his office. Sam eyes an old chair, unsure it's solid enough to be called one, and sits down carefully.

"You want my two cents? He's hiding something," Vivian tells her.

"Mmm…" She's not so prompt to pronounce such a verdict. "I don't know, Viv. Ryan doesn't have money so I doubt we'll be getting a ransom call anytime soon."

"And Douglas doesn't look the violent type," Vivian says fairly. "You're right."

In the minutes that follow, Sam peeks at the pictures on the counter. One of them shows Douglas and his son. The kid's holding an ice cream that looks like it's going to melt any second if the photographer doesn't hurry up and take that shot. "How's Reggie doing, Viv?"

"Oh, it's just the flu, a bunch of kids at school are sick. He's going to be fine," she says fondly.

Sam tears her eyes away from the pictures. "Planning on going away for Christmas?"

"Yeah," Vivian nods. "We haven't seen Marcus's parents in a while. Plus his sister Andrea had a baby last month so Reggie wants to meet her cousin."

Sam answers with a smile. It's not like she has anything planned for Christmas, but thinking about a cheerful family around a Christmas tree makes her forget that she doesn't have more than a green plant sitting on her kitchen counter and no one to celebrate Christmas with− not this year anyway. She gets up once more, stretching her legs, ready to focus on work again but no quite ready for Vivian's next question.

"How's therapy going?"

A sigh escapes her lips, half-relieved and half-irritated. "It's over. I had my last session a couple of weeks ago."

"You must be glad, Samantha."

She is, except being out of therapy means being fine and at times, she feels anything but.

Jarvis Douglas chooses this moment to reappear, handing over a thick binder. "It's all here," he tells them. "Bank records, employee list, supplies… everything."

"Thank you," Vivian takes the registry. "One more question, did Ryan ever make detours when he went running? Did he buy the paper, or bread, or did he stop on his way for a coffee?"

"Er… Sometimes he stopped for something to eat before he ran. I think there's a Starbucks a couple of blocks away." Shrugging, Jarvis looks at a loss.

"We'll tell you as soon as we know something," Sam assures him, feeling slightly bad for this man who obviously never intended to spend his morning talking to inquisitive FBI agents.

o o § o o

"The waitress at Starbucks said she served Ryan a coffee, presumably _before_ he went for a jog, but she was busy, there were a lot of people coming in and out so it's all she could tell us. The security cameras were off," Sam adds.

Jack flips through some papers, mostly background information. He's separated telephone records from high school archives, using paperclips to divide each pile. "What about Douglas?"

She stares at the piles for a second, stares at the colored paperclips. His gaze falls on her and she quickly averts her eyes, hastening to comment that Douglas doesn't have a motive.

"Maybe he does," Vivian turns from her chair, pointing at her computer screen. "I found flagrant irregularities in his bank records. Deposits, withdrawals… as if he were receiving cash, then handing it back out."

"Money laundering through his dry-cleaner's façade?"

Play-on-words set aside, Sam has to admit it's plausible. "Maybe Ryan knew about Jarvis's activities, or worse, he was in on it," she supposes. "Then something went wrong and things got out of hand."

Jack takes out his phone. "I think Mr. Douglas just won a free ride to our headquarters," he punches in a number.

Half an hour later, an agent walks to him. "Sir, Jarvis Douglas is downstairs."

"Thanks, David."

"And this came in for you," he hands out a large brown envelope, which Jack takes with him as he and Sam exit the bullpen. There's something off about this case, something she can't quite put her finger on. But she can feel it, like an incoming catastrophe− it's a hunch based on the fact that the coincidences with Mathew's murder are too many.

"I think his and Mathew's cases _are _related," she tells Jack as they enter the elevator.

He doesn't answer, lifting the corner of the envelope he's brought with him, seemingly intent on opening his mail, so she goes on, "I know it's far-fetched, but it's not impossible. Mathew was dressed as a Marine, Ryan really was one. Both are young and single," she reminds him as they near the interrogation room. "One was found dead in Central Park, the other has gone missing while he was headed−"

She suddenly realizes that Jack is no longer with her. Turning around, she sees him standing in the middle of the corridor, the envelope still in his hands. She wonders what's so fascinating about it− an address? An identity check? A plate trace? It's not like this kind of information is out of place in a federal building.

"Sam, uh−" he struggles for words. He looks shocked. Shaken. She waits, watching as he slips the envelope inside his jacket. He glances at the door of the interrogation in front of which they're both standing, and he states, "Er− okay, let's question Douglas."

The tone of his voice, combined with the way he averts his eyes… she wants to ask what's wrong, but he walks past her and a minute later, they're both in the room with their suspect.

Douglas still has a pair of blue jeans and a green jacket on, but this time he's handcuffed. _White picket fence_, Sam reminds herself, but somehow the image of Douglas the ideal citizen is replaced by Douglas the dishonest lawbreaker.

"Ryan was in on your traffic," Jack starts without preamble. He drops a folder on the metal table, where it lands with a flat sound. "You couldn't risk having him blowing up your cover, so you made damn sure he'd never get in your way again."

"No, I wouldn't do anything to Ryan," Jarvis denies. "We grew up together, our parents were best friends. I admit I wasn't always law-abiding, but I don't know where Ryan is. I'd give _anything_ to find him."

Sam takes a seat, but Jack doesn't, and she eyes him for a second, feeling his tension, the sudden thickness in the air.

"We have your bank accounts, you blithering idiot."

She blinks. She's heard that kind of intimidating speech from Jack before, but not delivered like that, not like he's losing his nerve. Before she knows it, her boss has walked around the table, and she's not at all prepared for what he does next.

"Hey man what the−"

"You son of a−"

"Jack!"

She catches his shoulder too late, after his fist connects with Jarvis's face and their suspect is sent flying backwards. The next few seconds are chaos− Douglas insults them both, she drags Jack backwards, Jack tries to free his arm from her grip, and she doesn't let go until they're out of the interrogation room.

"What the hell's wrong with you?" She's more bewildered than angry, but obviously he needs to calm down.

"Nothing," he retorts hotly. And before she can say anything else, he turns around and walks away.


	4. Snow & Rain

I truly appreciate the feedback, you guys are being so nice taking the time to leave comments. Special mention to Tidbit who reviews every single chapter of my stories- it means a lot to me, so thank you.

In this chapter... a JS scene, some more info on the case, and a little surprise at the end. More answers in Chapter 5, and that's a promise : )

Chapter 4 – _Snow & Rain_

_Same day_

It isn't until they step outside that she realizes how much snow has fallen last night. She takes the weather for granted, now, the almost unbearable heat of the summer and the winter winds that coat the city in ice.

Vivian is still investigating the Starbucks customers and Danny and Martin have taken a lunch break, braving the snow to find something open, so that leaves her here with her boss, out in the white, freezing world that separates the office from where Ryan's best friend lives. As they walk down the streets, she notices that the unrelenting snowstorm has caused traffic to slow down and people to stay inside, the city now as deserted as on Christmas eve.

She can't begin to fathom what drove Jack to hit Douglas. Lately, he hasn't been himself, and the thought disconcerts her almost as much as his behavior− edgy, irrational. Once, they would have gone somewhere and talked about it, but now he once again faced his demons at his original home address, and most probably alone in the dead of night.

"Jack?" she breaks the silence tentatively.

He has that look, like he's seen a ghost. "I'm fine."

He could fool anyone with this unaffected tone except, well, not her. "If you need anything, you know I'm here."

For a long, wonderful moment, a grateful smile plays on his lips. "Thank you."

She falls silent again and they keep on walking, treading carefully on the ice that has formed on the sidewalk. The chilly breeze sends her hair swirling behind her head, and her nose is colder than an iceberg. She'd like to ask him some questions, try to find some answers, but… she feels that it would drain the energy out of her.

"You're cold, Sam."

She looks down and realizes that her hands are trembling. Trying to keep her lips from quivering, she answers, "A bit."

They continue to walk, a little faster to arrive sooner, and for a moment it's just them and the howling wind, and the winter angels and Christmas spirits that dance in the snow. There are Christmas decorations everywhere; miniature sleighs and Christmas balls and it's bright and beautiful in a strangely unattainable way.

"What was it like?"

"What?"

Jack runs a hand idly against the side of his face. "Therapy."

She stops walking. She wonders why he's asking, wonders if they should both join a _psychologically screwed up workaholics _club. Rubbing her hands together to keep them warm, she hazards an answer. "Our conversations were mostly about… work, missing people …" she hesitates. "Barry."

"Talking about it," he remarks. "That's good."

"I guess it is, Jack. I guess it is." She lets the pain in her voice trail away with the last words, glancing up to see him leaning against a wall, hands tucked deep inside the pockets of his coat. Maybe he should have come along to her therapy sessions, and then they could've talked to Dr Harris like a couple in need of counseling, not because they couldn't find a way to love each other, but because their love ran so deep, so damned deep that it hurt.

"We talked about faith. And she said… she said it was okay to lose it sometimes."

"She did?"

Cold envelops her as they resume their walk down the lonely street, and she can feel the sorrow in his silence. "Yeah, Jack. Yeah."

o o § o o

Traumatic events, she knows, have long-term effects on individuals. You can always resort to the stereotypes− adults emotionally unstable because they were rejected by their parents, had an abusive uncle, were made fun of at school and so on and so on, and hell, surely that old lady around the corner has her share of responsibility in it. But Ryan Carthy defies every profile. Maybe that makes him number one in a new group that will later be known as the _Ryan Carthy category _and that will be comprised of enlisted Marines who used to be straight A kids; of joggers gone missing on a cold December morning.

"If I went missing, which profile would you use on me?"

"Female workaholic in her thirties, hates bad guys, colleagues who threaten to make her eat, and Christmas parties." Danny flips through a report without looking up. "Which means Father Christmas must've given you quite a scare as a kid." He dodges Sam's pencil, playfully thrown in his direction.

"I don't hate Christmas parties," she fakes indignation. "I just hate… I hate all the trees and decorations. I hate the Christmas carols and the lights in the streets and the sculpted candles and− and the front door bells that glitter."

"Father Christmas must've been scarier than I thought." Danny laughs, and then, concerned, he raises his eyes. "Why do you say that?"

"Because…" she says, frustrated. "It's not right to decide on this particular night that the world is one perfect, ideal place. It's not. No one thinks about the parents who lost their kids, or the husbands who lost their wives, or… or what they must feel like on Christmas eve."

"You're not spending it alone, are you?" he worries.

"No. No, I'm not."

"You sure? Because it's next week. If you want, you can always come−"

"No− I've got… I've got plans."

He looks at her. "Okay. But remember that you don't have to be alone, all right?"

"Yeah. Thanks, Danny."

They both keep working in silence, until Martin announces that Ryan's parents are waiting in the resting area.

Ryan's father, a lanky man who looks like he could use a good night's sleep, is holding his wife's hand. They're both very pale, waiting in silence, facing the news of their son's disappearance with admirable composure.

Sam can't begin to imagine what they're going through. More often than not, the victim's relatives go from hysterical to distraught in the span of a few hours. That makes dealing with the families both difficult and time-consuming, especially when you have to provide the inevitables _we're doing our best _and _we're going to find him _and other forms of false reassurances that only cover the fact that you have no idea what's going on.

"Ryan's best friend, Justin, told us that your son had a girlfriend before. Why didn't you mention it to us?"

A weary sigh from Ryan's father greets her question. He glances at his wife, then says, "They stopped dating six months ago. I don't understand why you need to know−"

"Everything you can tell us will be useful, Mr. Carthy," Martin says peacefully.

"They broke up because of Ryan's job," Ryan's mother explains in a quiet voice. "The idea that Ryan could be gone for months in a row when he was on a mission was a little too much for Claire to take. But they ended their relationship smoothly, both agreeing it was for the best."

"Did they keep in touch?"

"For a while, yes. Recently, I don't know," Mrs. Carthy admits. "You know how it is, people lose contact. They probably did too."

"But you're not a hundred percent sure?"

Ryan's father stops Martin tiredly. "Look, our son is old enough to have his own life. He can call whoever he wants whenever he feels like it, so you must know more about his daily activities than we do."

Turning to Mr. Carthy's wife, Sam observes the woman. This interview isn't quite like the others− it's the mother's calmness, that broken shard of glass in her gaze that seems to be telling them, _I already know I'll never see my son again._

"Was Ryan a troubled kid?

"Troubled?"

Her instinct advising her to be gentle, Sam clarifies, "Was he violent at school, introverted, depressed? Did he ever… try to end his life?"

"God, no," Mrs. Carthy covers her mouth with a hand, panic flashing across her face. "You don't actually think he would−"

"No," Martin hastens to reassure her. "It's just our job to ask."

"Our son doesn't need a psych evaluation," Ryan's father interrupts. Clearly, he's beginning to lose his patience. "He needs to be found."

"We're doing our best, sir," Sam gives him the rehearsed line. A few minutes later, they stand up, and she gives Mr. and Mrs. Carthy a small, professional smile. "Thank you for your help." She exits the room, closely followed by Martin.

"That wasn't productive."

"No, it wasn't," Sam gives a last glance at Ryan's parents before they round the corner. It's already late in the afternoon, and this case has more dead ends than she can count. "Any bright ideas now, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson," Martin answers morosely. "We try to find _something _useful before nightfall_."_

o o § o o

Sometimes, her thoughts drift to places they shouldn't, and she thinks, thinks and thinks again, about blood and guns and heat and everything at once, all mixed up, all equally messed up. And then everything blurs: the ice cream on Douglas's family photo melts and the guy in Cuba with his dollars is back and Mathew McNeil is still alive and… usually there comes a moment when she thinks so much that, God, she doesn't even know right from left anymore, and she starts believing in wrong answers and holding on to them to forget that she doesn't have any answers at all.

So maybe that partially explains why she said yes when that ex boyfriend of hers asked her for a drink. Because when she's alone for too long, her thoughts turn to what used to keep her warm, and she starts thinking about _him, _and then… then that's when it all goes to hell.

"An ice tea please."

There's something resolved in the way he asks the bartender for a soft drink. She tilts her chin at him, letting her eyes ask a question she hesitates to formulate.

"Yeah, I've changed," he forces out a laugh.

"What happened?"

"My partner was killed."

"Shit, Eric, I'm sorry."

He nods to his drink and she watches the ice cubes in his glass.

"You been drinking?"

"A couple weeks ago. Hit the bottle pretty hard, but then… my boss from the station backed me up against a wall one night. He told me, 'Alex wouldn't want you to do that.' So I just… stopped." He pauses. "But Alex wouldn't have wanted to die, either."

She watches as the bubbles in her lemonade rise to the surface. This friendly chatter is taking a turn she hasn't planned and now, even her eyes don't know what they want to show.

"He was shot while protecting a mother and her son. _NYPD cop dies a hero_," Eric quotes what must have been a headline on a newspaper she looked at, but forgot to pay attention to. She might've flipped through those pages indifferently, seeing this as just another death, another casualty.

"I'm sorry," she says again. It sounds trite, even to her own ears.

He nods an acknowledgment. "It's this city. It bleeds."

She looks at the man beside her. The metamorphosis in Eric Kellar is striking. Perhaps he can't sleep at night either, and eating is no longer on his list of priorities. Suddenly cynical, she contemplates what their lives have become: here they are, ex lovers at a bar trying to drown their sorrows in non-alcoholic beverages.

His tone turns a little lighter as he asks, "So how are you doing?"

It's the question she never quite answers honestly, even if it's late, the company's unanticipated, and there's an air of loneliness in the way he's looking at her.

"It was hard for a while," she settles for a half-truth. "After… you know." He acquiesces. He's sent flowers, after all. "But other than that, it's routine. The team's busy."

"How about the new kid? Broken his heart yet?"

She smiles indulgently. "I doubt that'll happen." She thinks of when Martin first joined the team, Danny's reluctance to work with him, how he fit in nicely. She thinks of Jack and how she never had to fit in with him, how, somehow, she was already there from the beginning.

"So, you're going to tell me that long story of yours? How did you become a CSI?"

"I asked for a desk job after… Alex. All they offered me was the opportunity to type reports, so I applied for something else. There was a free position on the CSI team, I knew a guy from there… that's how I got the position." Eric takes some peanuts from the counter, adding, "It's rewarding, despite the crazy hours. They have me working ballistics since I'm good with guns, but we see a bit of everything."

"Like Mathew McNeil," Sam takes a sip of her lemonade.

"Yes, like Mathew McNeil," he nods. "We don't have much, though. He was drugged and stabbed, twice in the heart, once in the stomach. A hunter knife, six-inch steel blade and serrated edge. But we're thinking random target− how to demonstrate you're part of a gang, maybe…" The sadness in his voice is impossible to miss. "How about you, Samantha? Is your boss giving you a hard time?"

_Something like that, yeah, _she wants to answer, but she suddenly feels very tired. Drained, even. "You know, Eric, it's getting late."

Once, he would've commented on this but now he just nods, and it's the part that surprises her the most. "Of course. You need a ride? It's raining pretty hard."

She leaves some cash beside her empty glass. "I'll be fine. But thank you."

She bids him good-night and exits the bar, shaking her head at the cloudy night sky. In barely a few hours, snow has turned into slush, then a merciless rain. It falls in a rapid cadence, burning trails along windows and crashing disgracefully on the pavement.

By the time she arrives at her apartment, the rain is no longer torrential, but it sticks unpleasantly to skin, clothes, hair, eyelashes. She removes her coat, locks the door and heads for her bedroom, dropping her keys on the bedside table. Today was… unusual in many ways. Between their stalling case on Ryan, Eric telling her his partner died, and Jack hitting a suspect… it just feels like the world did a giant leap and she forgot to notice.

A dull sound on the front door makes her stop, and she waits for another knock− at least, it sounds like one− before she goes back to her bedside table, back to her keys, back outside her bedroom, into the corridor, and walks the rest of the way to the entrance.

Figuring that she's forgotten something at the bar and that it's Eric bringing it back, she doesn't even bother to look through the peephole.

"Sam?"

She stares at him for a second− the rumpled shirt, the wet hair, the haggard look.

It's not Eric.


	5. Pictures

A/N: I hope this doesn't disappoint... you'll see that there are a lot of answers in this chapter, but of course, it doesn't mean the story's going to be finished soon. I still have tons of ideas, so this is definitely going to be a long one.

Happy reading, and thanks for the reviews... Avery, you definitely deserve the credit : ) If you remember correctly, Chapter 4 ended with someone knocking on Sam's door...

Chapter 5 - _Pictures_  
_Same night_

She could say hello, sigh, smile, or turn away, but all she can manage is a startled, "Jack?"

She moves from the door to let him in, offering to take his soaked coat. She's tired but… Jack will always be Jack. Even if having him here is a very _wrong _idea, and not only because he's trying to work things out with his wife.

"Still raining, isn't it?"

"Pouring." Following her lead, he takes a seat in her living room, facing her from the couch. When he runs a hand through his hair, it causes it to stick up at off angles, but he doesn't notice, too intent on letting his eyes revisit her apartment. He hasn't been here in a long time.

"I'm sorry I woke you up."

She lets her eyes wander over the pile of old magazines on the coffee table. Thinking about her drink with Eric, she makes up a quick excuse. "I wasn't asleep, I was just… watering my plants."

He doesn't challenge it, just gives her this soft parody of a smile. Awkwardly, he pats a cushion and then lets his arm fall at his side. "I, uh, I'm sorry I hit Douglas."

"You're lucky he didn't call his lawyer." A small silence settles, neither joyful nor comfortable. Deciding to be direct, Sam asks, "You're not here about Douglas, are you?"

He shuts his eyes for a moment and presses his fingers onto his brow, fighting a coming headache. And suddenly, she knows. Maybe no one else does, but she can read his emotions like an open book− a combination of indecision, guilt, tiredness… fear.

Taken aback at the latter, she states softly, "You know who killed Mathew and took Ryan."

It isn't a question. She knows him too well to make it one. What she can't understand, though, is the deadlock he feels he's in. "Why can't you have him arrested?"

He looks up, catching her gaze across the coffee table. "What makes you think it's a 'him'?"

If his voice hadn't been so hollow, she might have laughed. "A woman?" her eyes widen. "They represent less than five percent of serial killers."

He doesn't smile, and she doesn't feel like laughing anymore. Regrouping, she casts around for additional arguments. "Stabbing Marines isn't consistent with female assassination methods."

"Unless the method is a ritual."

"To achieve what?"

"Vengeance." His voice is even, but it has an odd ringing to it, like he's spent the past hour working hard to make it so. "Say this woman's father was killed when she was a little girl, stabbed by a couple of Marines who wanted his wallet and some cash. Say the family never got justice. This girl would grow up with only one idea in mind: to kill the same sort of men who kept her from knowing her father."

Sam stares at him. "These Marines could have fought back against a woman."

"Not if they were drugged."

Drugged... Drugged with C15H11HN3O3, aka Nitrazepam. Mathew was at a bar. Ryan stopped for a coffee. A woman could easily have been in both places. It's both admirable and terrifying how the pieces of the puzzle are falling into place.

Feeling like they're back to square one, she does her best to say serenely, "Have her arrested then."

He averts his eyes. "It's not so simple, Sam."

Taking a few steps around the coffee table, she takes a seat again, this time on the couch beside him. "Why not?"

The distance between them has been reduced, and now she wonders if the wetness on his brow is really due to the rain outside, or to sweat.

"Jack?"

"She's blackmailing me."

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out. This conversation is getting weirder and weirder, and she tries to clear her mind and look at this objectively, but the lateness and fatigue aren't helping. "Blackmail goes both ways, she'd have to have something against you."

"She does, Sam. God, she does. Everyone makes mistakes. Everyone has secrets. I do," his voice drops to a whisper, and she has to lean in to hear the last part. "We do."

Ignoring how the air has suddenly become very thin, she brushes her fingers against his arm. He stills at the contact.

She retrieves her hand.

He rests his head against the back of the couch for a moment. "I should've known she'd keep tabs on me all these years," he speaks quietly. Reaching inside his jacket, he retrieves a brown envelope− the same one he opened the day before. "I'm sorry, Sam. I should've− I should've known."

She takes the envelope and flips it over, as if the gesture will somehow alleviate the weight of what's inside. It feels like paper between her thumb and index, only a little thicker. As she retrieves the envelope's contents, her mind gradually becomes aware of what she has in front of her eyes. Pictures. They're pictures of−

_Shit. _

She bolts from the couch, and he doesn't hold her back.

Feeling like someone just slapped her, she goes to lean against the window, looking at the night and the rain outside, New York rain, lashing against the entire goddamn city. There's no place to take cover, no place to escape. Rain is like truth, like evidence, it just… doesn't go away. She sees the darkness and imagines people in the streets running and swearing and for a moment, she tries to… tries to hear above the sound of hammering water, honks, engines, wipers, traffic that moves too slowly; her mind conjuring surreal images of extra-large umbrellas and waterproof shoes and… the world stops making sense.

Reality falls back into place slowly, and at the same time, anger surges through her. Suddenly, she understands what prompted Jack to hit Douglas− the need to compensate confusion and shock by rage, a cold rage that runs through every part of her body.

Abandoning the window, she turns back to the couch. "What the hell am I supposed to say?"

He looks at her, at a loss for words.

"Fill me in," she tells him brusquely.

"Sam, I don't think−"

"If you don't want my help, fine, but then just… just get out."

Something breaks in her voice as she looks at him, looks at him and at the pictures… the pictures of their past.

She'd never thought this could happen. Never imagined someone would detain the proof that they'd had an affair− much less envisioned a serial killer blackmailing Jack with this knowledge.

But she knows where these pictures were taken, knows exactly when. On the first one, they were in his car. It was dark, _really _dark. They were in front of her apartment, bidding each other good night in an undeniably more intimate way than colleagues should. Picture number two was taken a few weeks later. She remembers that night− a warm evening, a place just outside the city. That picture is dark, heavily contrasted, with red light in background and the first four letters of the word _motel _on a neon sign. With the room's key in her hand, Jack's arm around her shoulders, and her arm around his waist, not even the best lawyer could convince a jury that there's nothing going on between them.

On the third and last picture, they're not physically touching. It's the one that makes her breath catch. Sometimes, looks speak more than words, and this is one of those instants when the way they're standing and the way their eyes are locked scream that he's more than her boss, more than a friend. And the light around them, the electricity in this picture could make a light bulb glow.

She can't deal with this− not here, not tonight. Can't− won't face these pictures and what they show and why on earth is this coming back to haunt them now?

He stands and walks around the couch, crossing the distance that separates them in a few strides. One of his hands finds her arm, but she pushes it away, pushes him away.

"Just leave, Jack, please," she says weakly, her eyes starting to burn.

Instead of doing so, he takes hold of her arms again, and draws her to him. Her weight falls against his chest as she tries to hold back her tears, breathing in the scent of him and of his arms wrapped around her shoulders, holding her for just a short moment. He feels wonderfully solid, but also close, too close for now.

"God, Jack," she whispers, pulling back from his embrace. He lets her go, giving her some space again. "Do you have any idea what this means?"

He nods in silence, his face pale. "I'm sorry," he says quietly.

"How could− how could this even happen? We were being careful."

"Not enough," his voice cracks a degree.

Her anger, resentment, shock are suddenly replaced by a numbness that makes her muscles weak. They both go back to sit on the couch, further apart this time because she still doesn't know what to think of all this.

"Who is this woman?"

"Her name is Irina Connelly," he begins, taking a deep breath. "At twenty-one, she attended psychology courses which awakened her childhood traumas. She decided to avenge her father. In June 1987, she drugged and stabbed Jeremy Holloway, a Marine, in Central Park. I, uh, was the investigator on the scene." Jack closes her eyes at the memory. "Irina claimed Jeremy had tried to rape her, and the jury ruled the case as self-defense with aggravating circumstances because she killed him when she could have just incapacitated him. She took fifteen years."

Sam rapidly calculates that the woman was just released. "If she targets Marines, I understand why she killed Mathew and abducted Ryan. But why the pictures? Why would she be after _you_?"

His jaw tenses. "What do you mean?"

"You've put a lot of people behind bars. Thank God they don't all end up chasing after you." He doesn't answer, so she presses. "Spaulding wanted his damn fifteen minutes. What did you promise this woman, Jack?"

"I knew her from College."

A minute clicks by, or at least it seems that long. This is yet something else she never knew about Jack Malone. Secrets.

She's one of them.

"I have a Master's degree in Psychology," he reminds her, still with this maddening calm of his. "We were in the same year. We met a few times… during classes and at a couple of parties. We were just acquaintances, but that's enough for her to consider that I betrayed her."

She does her best not to look at the pictures spread out on the coffee table. God, how could they have been taken without them noticing? She shuts her eyes briefly, not wanting to be reminded of that time, a time when everything was complicated, a time when it became so wonderfully simple when they were together. "What does she want from you?"

He answers her question with a rhetorical one. "Do you think anyone else could link her to the murders?"

She falls silent, her conversation with Eric replaying in her mind. They're thinking random death for Mathew. They're never going to check archived files, much less look for a woman. This is so… so clever. Irina must've been careful not to leave evidence behind− no DNA, no fingerprints, just dead bodies. With no element of comparison, everyone will think the killer is someone with no record.

As if reading her thoughts, Jack adds, "She knows I'm the only one who could ever find a match so quickly. As long as I keep quiet, she'll have time to kill more Marines."

Now, Sam knows exactly where that look of dread in his eyes comes from. It comes down to a simply choice. Their careers, or more murders. Truth or silence, a silence that will cause others to die.

They look at each other for what feels like an eternity, weighing their secrets against innocent lives.

"I'm going to call Van Doren tomorrow," Jack says, barely audible. "I have to tell her everything about Irina."

He doesn't add the obvious. _Tell her everything about us._ It's not only his career he's going to jeopardize.

Rising from the couch once more, Sam takes a few uncertain steps, not knowing what she's doing until she's standing in front of a closet. Opening it, she retrieves a folded blanket.

When she returns to Jack, he looks at her, then at the blanket, and back at her again.

"It's raining outside."

They both know how lame the excuse is, but they need it all the same. She turns to the door, knowing it's less dangerous, less risky to stare at it than into his eyes, those dark eyes that seem to follow her wherever she goes, into those places in which she tries to hide. "There's, uh…"

She's never managed to hide. Not from his eyes, not from him. "There's a pillow in the closet if you need−"

"I know."

Of course he does. He knows those things about her and her apartment; where to put away his shoes and how to make coffee in her kitchen and where she keeps her spare keys. He knows there are pillows in the closet.

The words catch in her throat. "Good-night, Jack."


	6. Coffee

Guys, thanks for the support : ). I'll try very hard to keep updating regularly. Mariel, I just have to say thank you for being the most thorough beta-reader ever!

On with the story: chapter 5 ended with Jack about to spend the night on Sam's couch, and this is set the next morning. The first scene is a flashback, so don't be surprised if the timeline doesn't quite seem to fit...

Chapter 6- _Coffee_

_They had only stopped because of the red neon sign, the one that read 'motel' and lured exhausted drivers into halting for the night. He slid an arm around her shoulders, not caring at this point that the parking lot was a public place. It was dark. It was late. They were only aware of each other. _

_Sometime during the short walk from the car to their room, she'd managed to find the key he'd slipped into the pocket of his jacket. She retrieved her arm from around his waist, pausing long enough to open the door, and he followed her inside the room._

_Casually, he commented, "It's not the greatest place."_

_His voice was low, breaking the silence that had been their only companion since they'd left the reception area. Touring the room with her eyes, she took in the classic, cheap motel style− a queen, a table, a couple of chairs crammed in the corner._

_"Does it matter?"_

_Her voice was higher, more flippant. Much more superficial than the feelings behind it, and he seemed to sense this, for his gaze travelled to meet hers. "Not really."_

_Taking off her shoes, she was still wondering what would happen to Tracy Williams− the case that had taken them outside the city today__−__ when she heard Jack opening the small closet beside the bed. Recognizing the characteristic creaking of wood against metal, she looked up. _

_"There are extra blankets." _

_She flashed him a teasing grin. "Think you'll need one?"_

_"I trust you'll keep me warm."_

_The room was __small,__ it felt like they were miles apart. They hadn't been together in a while, and she could feel his longing in the way his eyes privately roamed over her body, her skin. Taking a step around the bed, she muttered, "I think I can do that," and then started to the bathroom._

_He caught her arm mid-way. "Sam."_

_She stopped, feeling his warm hand on her wrist. She had never allowed herself to fall for someone before, not like this, not so completely. She couldn't explain why it was different with Jack− maybe it was the secrecy, or the night's air, the night's temperature. Or maybe it was any air, any temperature, at any given hour of day or night provided that they were together._

_"Come here," he whispered._

_She complied, one of his arms wrapping around her waist. His lips joined hers, and he kissed her in the dim light, kissed her and held her and that night… that night, they didn't ask anyone permission to love each other._

The jarring sound of the alarm wakes her up. Disoriented, she tries to get back to the dream− get back to sleep− back with Jack and−

Instantly reminded that he's in her apartment, she throws off the covers and opens the window for some fresh air. Letting the cool winter breeze come into the room, she allows it to clear her thoughts before deciding that she needs her morning fix of caffeine.

Jack looks up when she enters the kitchen.

She takes a seat while he finishes making coffee, observing him. In the light of day, the previous night materializes between them, turning the air thick. Seeing the hollow, beaten look about him, she wonders if he's slept at all. She certainly had her shares of disturbing dreams.

"Thanks." She takes the offered mug of coffee and sips the liquid in silence.

He clears his throat, trying to ease them into a less awkward situation. "Thank you for letting me stay the night."

"You're welcome." Placing her empty mug in the sink, she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear before moving to the door. "I'm going to take a shower."

He looks down at his shirt, smoothing it with the palm of his hand. "Okay. I have to change too, pick up clothes in my car."

Feeling she needs to address this, she tries to be neutral as she asks, "Have you called your wife?"

He straightens. "Yesterday evening."

It feels too much like old times. _I've got work and I have to stay in late and I'm sorry, I'll be back home when I can. __If I can._Their affair is over but the lies aren't, not those lies anyway.

Ten minutes later, she's in the shower, letting hot water spray over her. It feels good, and helps her straighten out her thoughts. She makes two decisions: first, she'll ask Jack if she can study the information he's gathered on Irina Connelly. Whether they want it or not, they're in this together. And second, she'll talk to Eric and try to figure out what he can do to help.

"Sam?" Jack calls above the sound of running water. His voice is insistent. "Your phone."

She turns off the tap and steps out of the shower, into the cold air of the bathroom. In a matter of seconds, she's wrapped a towel around herself, and, shuddering, she turns the knob and opens the door.

"Here," Jack's holding her ringing phone in one hand, his black-tie-of-the-day in the other. "You better pick up. Viv just called me about the case, so that's probably her trying to…"

The voice dies in his throat, his eyes automatically traveling to her body, stopping on her moist skin before they travel to her shoulders, the curve of her neck. A moment passes between them, and she wonders fleetingly if he's going to pin her to the door and kiss her, right here, right now.

Her phone rings once more.

"Spade," she answers, willing her voice to sound normal. "Hey Viv… Yeah, I'm listening." She sees Jack moving out of hearing range, giving her some privacy. "You did? Okay."

By the time she hangs up and finishes dressing, he's back in the kitchen, sifting through the newspaper.

"Viv said she had information about Ryan's disappearance. What's up?"

His eyes leave the paper to settle on hers. "Something about a customer at the Starbucks shop. Apparently Ryan wasn't alone there; he was seated with a woman for a few minutes."

Frowning, she hopes the artist's sketch will be accurate enough to identify her. "You think it's Irina?"

"I know it's her." Rising to his feet, he runs a hand along his unshaved cheeks. His eyes set, he folds the paper and announces, "I'm going to talk to Van Doren this morning."

"Wait," she stops him. A plan starts to form in her mind; a crazy plan that involves going to Eric to help Jack. "There has to be another way."

"I don't think so…" He seems sorry to break this news to her.

Not knowing what she's getting herself into, she suggests, "Let me talk to my contact inside the CSI team. What we want is something to lead their investigation to Irina Connelly quickly, right? We want her to be the primary suspect." She doesn't pause to notice that she's included herself on this decision. "I'll let my contact know that Irina's behind the murders. That way it won't be coming from you, and if she's watching, she won't think you told anyone."

He runs his tongue over dry lips, as if debating with the idea. "Who's your contact?"

She has a fleeting vision of Jack trying to shoot Eric when he finds out. "I can't tell you that."

He leans against her counter. "Do you trust him?"

"Do you trust me?"

He looks at her. "Yes."

It's simple to him. It's honest. And she's glad the doorjamb is holding her, because he hasn't spoken to her like that in a long, long while.

Thinking back about decision number one, she tilts her chin at him. "Do you have files on Irina Connelly? I'd rather know who we're dealing with."

"I could fill you in tonight."

Her eyes stop on the kitchen table. For an instant, she wonders if he'll agree to come back here, to her apartment. It would probably be awkward, to work here with him again.

Knowing where her thoughts are going, he tells her anxiously, "She knows where you live, so I'd rather not come here too often. And you should be careful, Sam. Don't part with your gun."

"I won't," she says nervously.

He slips his phone back inside his pocket, knowing they both have to be in the office soon. He'll leave before her, simply because it's part of the routine they used to have. "Mind if I go and shave?"

She tells him to go ahead, but he doesn't move.

Her eyes settle on the suddenly fascinating toaster. "I still have some."

He turns to face her. "Some what?"

"Blades."

He raises a curious eyebrow. "Mine?"

"Who else's, Jack?"

o o § o o

Danny enters the bullpen with steaming coffee, the scent invading her personal area as he comes to lean against her desk. "Here you go."

"Thank you," she says gratefully. God, she must've had three cups already and it's barely nine.

"Caffeine is addictive."

"Yeah," she says absent-mindedly, her eyes still on the slip of paper she's been holding for the past five minutes. Is calling Eric really wise? What if he talks? What if it just makes things worse? Contacting him felt like a great plan two hours ago. Now, it just feels like she's agreed to play an insanely dangerous game.

"One of your secret admirers?"

She reads the number again, the last digits stuck in her mind. 6525. "Keller."

Danny takes his time to look at her. "What are you doing with Keller's number?"

"Since when are you my baby-sitter?"

She regrets the icy remark as soon as it leaves her mouth. He looks startled for a moment, and she wants to apologize… but somehow _Jack slept on my couch and a serial killer is blackmailing him with pictures of us together _hardly sounds like the appropriate thing to say.

Danny says nothing for a while, but she can imagine his mind working furiously. "Do you really want to do this, Sam? If you're calling Keller because Jack's back with Maria and you're trying−"

"Danny, don't," she stops him. She doesn't want to start thinking about Jack and Maria right now. "You don't get it."

"What doesn't he get?" Martin asks interestedly, sinking into a chair across from Sam's work area.

Reminded that they're on a case, Sam does her best to plaster a professional look on her face. "What do you have?"

"Some background info on Justin− Ryan's best mate. Adopted at birth, three different foster homes, DUI at sixteen, detox at eighteen, got a few burger flipping gigs for a few months before he enlisted."

"He became a Marine to get a new life," Danny summarizes. Apparently in a positive mood, he grins at Martin. "Hey, what do you say we open a business? _Taylor, Fitzgerald and Co_. I'll make the French fries and you'll flip the burgers."

Smiling, but ignoring the barb, Martin gives them some additional information on Ryan's friend. Sam, despite knowing that it's pointless to further investigate on Justin, listens with interest nonetheless.

"He has a record, he's unstable. If his alibi doesn't check out, it'll make him suspicious enough to be brought in," Martin concludes. Switching topics effortlessly, he asks, "Has Vivian found anything about this mysterious woman who was with Ryan?"

"Not yet. The guy at the coffee shop is a regular, he just said she was in her thirties, maybe forties. Dark hair, medium height, no particular details." Grimacing at the depiction's accuracy, or lack thereof, Danny adds, "He'd never seen her before, but Jack wants us to concentrate her efforts on her."

"Why?"

"He didn't say. A hunch, maybe."

"Okay. I'll tell Jack about Justin− he's been updating Van Doren on the case for the last half hour." Martin stands, stopping only when he passes in front of Danny's desk. "Hey, Danny?"

"Yeah?"

"The fries−" Martin says in a low voice, "You'd burn them."

Danny makes a face, and Sam contains a smirk.


	7. Chocolate

... And here's the latest contribution. Thank you for the ongoing reviews, they're encouraging me to keep writing. GEM8 and crazy10, I'm glad to know you're still reading!  
Any mistakes in this chapter are my own, as I've made some edits after Mariel kindly took time to beta this. Mariel− you know how great you are :p

Chapter 7 - _Chocolate_  
_Same day_

"Justin's alibi checks out," Martin informs them. "So does Claire's. Most of his comrades are on the base; the few of them who had a leave of absence yesterday have an alibi as well. And Ryan's parents were indeed at a business dinner."

"I've narrowed the timeline of his disappearance to a half hour," Vivian stands up and turns to the white board. "Jarvis Douglas confirms Ryan left around 7:20. The waitress at Starbucks said he showed up for a coffee at 7:30− it was the beginning of her shift." She points out at a line, _7:30 – orders coffee. _"Now, the customer who recognized Ryan and said he was sharing a table with a woman who came in around 7:40. Ryan got up around ten minutes later."

"If he left alone," Danny points out, "Why are we looking for this woman? She didn't kidnap him, did she?"

Jack rises. He's been unusually quiet since they began this team meeting. "She could've put something in his coffee."

"At seven in the morning?" Martin ponders. "It's more probable that he got run over by a car."

"I've checked all the morgues and hospitals again," Danny shakes his head. "No John Doe matching Ryan's description."

"Yeah, but a woman who drugs a Marine at a coffee shop?" Martin goes on. "It just doesn't happen."

Vivian looks at them thoughtfully, then turns to Jack. "You're thinking serial killer, aren't you?"

Jack nods slowly. "Mathew, then Ryan. Let's not ignore it."

Refusing to meet his eyes, Sam keeps her gaze on the white board. She knows he'll have to tell Danny, Martin and Vivian about Irina Connelly. Having the team concentrate on her without giving them the details will work for some time− not long, unfortunately. They're going to have questions, and eventually they'll figure it out.

Jack checks his watch. "Grab lunch, then get back to work. We're going to presume that this woman drugged Ryan, then waited for him to leave. She followed him while waiting for the drug to be effective. Then she abducted him, either by force or after offering him a ride. Unfortunately, our chances of finding Ryan's trashed coffee cup to test it are nil. So Danny, Martin, work escape itineraries: find out which road she could've taken. Interview half the city if you have to, or check all the security cameras in a three blocks perimeter."

He turns to Vivian. "You and Sam can keep working on the Starbucks' customers. Get more information on who had a direct view on Ryan's table, find out which door they came in through, if a woman was parked nearby. We can only assume she used a stolen car. I want to know everything: its color, its plates… when she last washed it."

They all push back their chairs, aware of their respective tasks. When Sam's cell phone vibrates, she checks it and finds a text message from Eric.

"Guys, I'm out for lunch."

She meets Jack's eyes rapidly, praying that her plan will work out. Danny throws her a quizzical look, so she smirks and adds for his benefit, "I haven't had French fries in a while."

o o § o o

"I had lunch with my contact. I convinced him that Ryan was going to be found dead sooner or later. He said that as soon as they open an investigation again, he'd lead his team to Irina Connelly without it looking suspicious."

Jack blows out a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Sam."

She simply nods. It wasn't easy to convince Eric, especially when she couldn't give him any details. But there's something changed about him, something… grown up. The sarcasm, the twisted NYPD cop humor and the playful tones are gone, replaced by a vague hollowness, an empty hole where his partner used to be. She'd only met Alex a few times, in between bars, but Eric and he had a bond that went beyond friendship− a bond that came from a same passion for the job, hours spent in the same car, saving each other's life more times than they could remember. She's lost an acquaintance, but Eric… he's lost a brother.

"You want something to drink?" Jack heads for the hotel room's mini-bar, unaware of her train of thoughts. "Soda? Or something else?"

She has whisky in mind, but tonight isn't about getting herself drunk. Tonight, she's just here to learn more about Irina Connelly in a strictly professional way. "Soda's fine," she tells him.

When he comes back, he draws a third chair for his legs, extending an arm for her to take her glass. She chuckles and he looks up at her, before promptly taking his feet off the chair. It's something he used to do and she's not sure how she feels about that. Trying to lighten the suddenly tense atmosphere, she says with a half-smile, "I guess guys always do that."

"Yeah? That gives the girls a reason to complain," he supposes, giving her a smile that quickly fades when he opens an old, brown folder. He tastes some of his drink− whisky. Clearly he hasn't hesitated twice before filling up his glass with something strong.

"It's… strange to see her again," he says to himself. Seeing Samantha waiting, he hands her Irina's picture.

The woman who looks back at her is medium-built, with long, curly brown hair. Honestly, she half-expected her to be some kind of monster, with evil eyes, a wicked smile. All she has in front of her is a young woman in her late twenties, with light blue eyes and delicate features. _Normal_, and had she not known Irina was a killer, Sam might even have hazarded _good-looking._

Jack explains, "This picture's fifteen years old. Back at the time, it was just me and John investigating routine stuff. Mostly, some bar brawls, drug runners, a couple of isolated murders. I was barely more than a rookie at the time."

"John?"

"He was my boss. He's retired now, must spend the majority of his time walking to and from the beach in Hawaii…"

"It must have been a shock to find out Irina was involved in a murder."

Jack clenches his jaw imperceptibly. "It was." His voice softening, he goes on, "She's not crazy, Sam. She's a sane person with a traumatic past, but she's not like the other serial killers."

"Because you knew her?"

He acquiesces in silence. Sifting through the files he's brought, he starts filling her in on the Jeremy Holloway case, Irina's first murder. These folders have the feel of sleepless nights, and she trails her fingers along the handwritten reports, along his scribbled notes. There are a few press articles and newspaper cuts depicting the murder, and several reports to go through.

A couple of hours pass, but not once does she ask if Irina might have been innocent− the disturbed look in Jack's eyes when he talks about her is enough.

"What about her accomplice?" she thinks of who might've taken the pictures while Irina was in jail. "It must be someone she trusted."

"And someone she could manipulate easily."

"You know, we're going to have to talk to the rest of the team. Investigating other leads is a waste of time."

He shuts his eyes briefly. "I know."

She has a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. It's only now that she realizes what it is they're doing. Investigating on their own, pulling back files that are more than a decade old… lying to the world, hiding from the world, and they're probably soon going to be breaking more rules than at any point during their affair.

Trying to get a feel of this woman, she gets back on topic. "If you had to depict Irina in a few words, what would you say?"

"Maniac, obsessed," Jack doesn't hesitate.

"Why abduct Ryan and wait before killing him?"

"I'm not sure. Hell, for all we know, she might be trying to understand what prompted her father's robbers to kill him." Pausing for a second, he then adds, "She's careful, meticulous. She'll probably plan all the murders in advance, instead of acting in the heat of the moment. She's had a long time to think about why she got caught after killing Jeremy. She won't make the same mistakes twice."

As he describes Irina, Sam is glad to see some of his tension ease off, as he makes himself more comfortable, leaning an elbow on the table. They both continue to go through his past reports and notes, then, when they're both relaxed enough, he gives her his impressions on the younger Irina, how he remembers she behaved back in College.

"This case changed a lot of things for me," he confesses.

"Changed how?"

"I started to look at people differently. I never knew Irina was a killer. So I started to be more observant, I stopped judging people at first sight. I took more notes on the cases, became more organized." Pointing at a stack of reports, Jack retrieves a blue paperclip. An amused smile pulls at his lips. "I began to use paperclips."

Sam laughs. A conversation that dates back years finds its way into her mind.

She blinks, trying to chase away the memory of that evening− a missing kid, a body, and it was easier to point at Jack's papers and wonder why the hell he couldn't use staples like everyone else than to talk about why the case had gone wrong. So the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, the sad smile on his lips when their eyes met, everything about that day now rests in a few sentences, a few words. _T__hey're not just paperclips, Samantha; they're colored paperclips, and it makes all the difference._ And after that evening, the $2.49 boxes of paperclips on his desk were never quite the same again, and neither was her relationship with Jack Malone.

Oh, God. She pushes away the forbidden memory, pushes away the thought and concentrates once more on reading the files, picking up useful details here and there. Jack finishes his whisky, now completely at ease, the sun long gone and the room comfortably silent.

Putting down her pen, she finally looks up to find him observing her. "I think I should−"

"Right," he rises quickly.

Her legs bump against the bed when she moves to get her coat, and she can feel the heat radiating off his body as he helps her into it. It feels strange to be here this late, with him in a hotel room. It feels… frighteningly good.

It takes her longer than normal to wrap her scarf around her neck. "I'll try to be in the office early."

"Me too."

She starts walking to the door. "Bring in donuts?"

"It's Danny's day off tomorrow."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well there's always Martin to complain that there's nothing to eat…"

He follows her to see her out, massaging the stiff muscles in his neck. "Chocolate frosting?"

"As long as they don't forget the chocolate," she jokes.

He attempts a brave smile, but it's strained, and when he starts to move again, she stops him. "You're going home too, right?"

"No." He shrugs casually, but not convincingly. "Maria's away for a couple of days and the girls are at her parents'. I don't see why I should be home if they're not."

She hears the bitterness in his voice, but chooses not to comment. She wishes she could make the guilt on his face go away with a warm embrace, a kiss, a few more hours in this room with him.

He leans against the wall, inches away from her, so incredibly close. And before she opens the door, his mouth finds her ear.

"Chocolate it is," he whispers.


	8. Pies

In chapter 7, Jack briefed Sam about Irina Connelly, the serial killer they're after. Call this a transition chapter if you want... I'm working on the next one so it shouln't be too long. Thank you so much for the reviews! Crazy10, feel free to complain that I've left you hanging once again -g-

The Harry Potter reference is just for fun... if you're not a fan, ignore it : )_  
_

Chapter 8 - _Pies_

The next morning, Sam is working with Martin, trying to find out what Julia Thompson was up to before she disappeared.

"She withdrew sixty thousand dollars last week," Martin reminds Sam as they arrive in front of a small sub-urban residency. "All their savings. The husband was clueless."

"And obviously blind."

Danny having the day off, Martin and she are supposed to talk to Julia's only sister, Grace. Ryan's case is still open, but there are other missing persons to find as well. Sam quickly goes over what they have so far: Julia Thompson, thirty-two, married, didn't come home from the airport last night. The husband figured she'd checked in at a hotel, too tired to go home. Why hadn't she called? Why hadn't she shown up in the morning? Mr. Thompson tried her to call her friends, parents, but to no avail. 911 is next on his list of calls.

"Hello?" a young woman opens the door shortly after Martin knocks. Wearing an apron that covers what must be an elegant beige blouse, she apologizes, "I'm sorry, I was making pies for charity, I'm supposed to help out for this aftern−"

She breaks off uncertainly, eyes trained on the two agents in front of her. "Can I help you?"

"We're here about your sister, Julia," Sam shows her FBI badge as an introduction.

Not long after, they're shown into a living room with French windows and a large flat-screen TV, while Grace disappears inside the kitchen to turn off the oven. Sam catches an aroma that resembles her mother's homemade pies, and says with a pang of sadness, "Reminds me of home. My mom used to make pies."

"My aunt too. We'd pick up mulberries from the backyard when I went there as a kid, and she'd cook all afternoon. It was great."

She rubs her nose, almost as if it will help her keep the scent forever. "Don't you miss those times, Martin?"

He takes a chair near the fireplace. "Sometimes."

"What do you do about it?"

"I visit my aunt often… The rest of the time, I buy some from the Mart around the corner."

Grace reappears without her apron. Looking at Martin first, then at the other agent, she moves to the center of the room. "Has something happened to Julia?"

Sam notices that it's the first outward sign of concern they see.

"We're not sure; she's missing. Paul said you two were close," Martin refers to Julia's husband.

"Yes, we were. Our parents moved a lot when we were kids, and losing friends and moving all the time wasn't always easy. It brought us closer."

"I can imagine," Sam sympathizes. "When did you last see your sister?"

"Last week, when she came over for Matt's birthday− that's my son. He wanted his aunt to come."

Martin follows Grace with his eyes as she comes to take a seat in front of them, abandoning her standing position. "How did she seem to you?"

"Good," Grace says, and for a moment Sam almost believes her. But there's something about the way she looks aside when she answers that makes her think otherwise. "She was busy, of course, always running around for work: Dallas and LA and Seattle because her company has offices there."

"Was Paul here for your son's birthday?"

A short silence follows. "No," Grace finally says, reluctantly. "They aren't exactly getting along these days, and she didn't want Matt to think they'd get divorced− Paul's always been a great uncle to him."

"Miss Thompson," Martin says, reverting to Grace's maiden name not as an insult, but to remind her that this is a family issue. "Do you think Julia could've run away?"

"No. She and Paul just− they haven't been on very good terms lately because they're both tied to their jobs."

Sam finally drops the bit of info they've learned: "Julia called you yesterday evening from JFK. What can you tell us about that?"

The woman nervously averts her eyes. "I didn't have time to pick up."

"Grace," Sam says gently. "We know your conversation lasted more than two minutes."

Grace's face turns red. "Okay. She called me to apologize. I don't know what she was planning on doing."

"What exactly did she tell you?"

"Uh…" Grace struggles to remember. "It didn't make much sense, really. She said… she said she had to take care of some things, and that she was sorry, she should've been more present, a better aunt to Matt in the last few months. She apologized for not having been a better sister." Looking up at them hopefully, Grace adds, "Maybe it was about work. Last week she kept saying some of her colleagues were giving her a hard time."

Back in the car after a few more questions, Martin and Sam head for Julia's office downtown. Secretly, Sam wishes this case to be over soon so they can get back to searching for Irina Connelly. Struggling to concentrate on their latest case, however, she declares, "If it had been someone from the conference in Dallas, they wouldn't have waited for Julia to be back in New York before doing something to her."

"Which rules out most of her colleagues. But not the ones from the New York office." Martin taps his fingers on the steering wheel. "I can't think of a motive, though. She's ambitious, but it's a marketing company. Ambition is expected, there's a lot of competition." Pausing, he considers the rest of the information gathered. "It doesn't explain the sixty thousand dollars either."

Mulling over this woman's busy life, the rocky state of her marriage, and the professional opportunities that would be open to her if she left New York, Samantha takes her time before she shares her impressions. "I think Grace knows something."

"Definitely," Martin agrees. "Did you notice the way she dismissed the possibility of Julia running away?"

Looking at their case whilst taking Grace's behavior in consideration, Sam watches as Martin stops at an intersection. "She called Grace and apologized for not having been a better sister. _Having been._ Past tense."

"You think it meant something?"

Sam nods pensively. "I think it meant good-bye."

o o § o o

"His mother says he was getting the paper," Jack explains, Sam following him in quick strides. "It's less than half a block away from their apartment, so she lets him do it. Apparently he saw something unusual when he passed the coffee shop."

"You think it was Ryan?"

"It's possible." Pausing before he enters the room, Jack warns, "Just go easy on this kid, he's pretty intimidated."

He pulls open the door, holding it for Sam. A blond kid is seated in a chair twice his size, his mother patiently waiting beside him.

"Thank you for coming, Mrs. Harrow. Keith," Jack turns to the boy. "This is Samantha," he motions at his colleague. "She's going to stay here with us, okay?"

Sam gives him a smile, taking a seat beside Jack. "Can you tell us what you saw?"

Nodding shyly, Keith turns to his mother, who takes his hand reassuringly. "I stopped at the bookstore across the street," little Keith explains. "My mom doesn't want me to stop on the way but−" he says to his hands, "I was looking at the books behind the glass because Harry was there."

Puzzled, Sam wants to ask who that is, but Jack asks amusedly, "Which book was it?"

"Goblet of Fire."

"Did you read the others?"

"Yeah," Keith's small voice grows more assured. "But Goblet of Fire's my favorite one. I like the part when Harry's fighting the Hungarian Horntail best."

"Oh, yeah," Jack says, sharing a knowing glance with the mother. "I like it too. But I think the best part is in the maze, when Harry has to get past the sphinx. He's presented with a riddle," Jack strives to remember the details. "I think it starts with 'First think of the person who lives in disguise, Who deals in secrets…"

"And tells naught but lies," Keith grins. "The answer is a spider. Harry finds it."

"So he does," Jack nods.

Sam sits back in her chair, not quite believing her ears. Next thing she knows, Jack will be telling her he went to Hogwarts.

Getting back to what initially brought them here, she uncaps a pen, while Jack looks at the now relaxed boy in front of him. "Keith, what did you do after you stopped in front of the bookstore?"

"I walked past the coffee shop."

"Okay. Was there anybody outside?"

Shaking his head, the boy looks at Sam's pen interestedly. "No. But there was someone when I came back. After I bought the paper. It was a woman. And a man." Receiving an encouraging nod of the head from his mother, he goes on, "He was like Mr. Tom at night."

"Mr. Tom is our neighbor," Mrs. Harrow clarifies, looking slightly embarrassed. "He comes back drunk from time to time, wakes up the kids."

"Oh," Jack writes it down, knowing of the short-term effects of Nitrazepam. If Ryan was confused, walked unsteadily, and had to lean on Irina for support, it would look to a kid like he'd drunk too much. "Did they walk away?"

"They got into a car. The lady was driving."

"Do you remember something about the car?" Sam insists. "Its color, plates, anything?"

"It was black," Keith answers, seeming pretty sure of it. "And it was the same car as… as grandma."

Jack looks up at Keith's mother, who hastens to say, "A Taurus. It's a Taurus."

"Do you recognize them?" Jack holds out a picture of Ryan, and another one of Irina, passing them across the table. Keith looks at them intently, then gives another, slow nod.

"Thank you," Sam says, wanting to hug the boy. "You've been a lot of help, Keith."

Exiting the room behind Jack, they walk side by side for a moment in thoughtful silence. They had nothing before. Now they still haven't got much, but it's a start.

"So, Harry Potter, eh?" she nudges him in the side, chuckling. "No wonder you never told me what your favorite book was."

"Don't start," he groans. "Hanna's in her Harry Potter years. It gets annoying − you know, Harry this and Harry that and you can't get a break at dinner because only Muggles need to wash the dishes and help clear the table." He stops as they pass his office, the phone on his desk ringing. "I have to take this," he apologizes, and she walks the rest of the distance to the bullpen.

Vivian's there, on the phone, still working on the Julia Thompson case. Inspecting the timeline with new eyes, Sam tries to understand what could have happened to her.

_04:21PM – End of Dallas conference_

_06:44 PM – Takes off from DFW_

_10:30 PM– Lands at JFK, no other flight booked_

_10:56 PM– Calls sister_

They have yet to determine what happened next, so that leaves a blank, empty white space on the timeline.

"Ok, thanks Martin," Vivian hangs up. Looking up, she fills in Sam: "Julia didn't rent a car, but a taxi driver recognized her. She gave him a fake name, paid cash, and asked him for a ride around 11 PM yesterday."

"Where to?"

"Atlantic city."

Surprised, Sam clasps her hands together. "She could've landed there."

"Not if her flight was booked by her company, then it would've looked suspicious," Vivian reminds her. "I bet the taxi driver was more than happy to make some extra money on the ride." Turning to her keyboard, she types in Winchester Avenue and the number the cab driver gave Martin. The database comes up with a Mr. and Mrs. Decheper, making Vivian shrug. "Friends, maybe?"

"Hang on, I've seen that name," Sam digs up a report from under a pile. Checking a long list, she says, "Uh− yeah, here. She called them a couple of days ago, for five minutes and fifty-one point seven seconds," she smiles indulgently at the phone company's precision.

"The husband's an attorney, the wife's a teacher. They have a son, Richie. He's twelve now. Adopted at birth," Vivian reads the information on her screen. "Closed adoption," she gazes at Sam, a curious note in her eyes. "What do you think of that?"

"I think it's worth checking," Sam nods. She adds, "Might be Julia's son. That would have made her about twenty at the time."

"She was young… lost. Couldn't properly take care of a child," Vivian supposes. "Fifteen years later, she has enough money to run away. So she leaves behind an unhappy marriage, finds a ride to Atlantic City to see her son. It explains the money. And also what story Grace is keeping to herself."

Said like that, it sounds simple; the decision to leave, however, must have taken Julia a lot of strength. Erasing the interrogation marks and drawing a new diagonal line on the board, Sam writes down,_ 11 PM – goes to Atlantic city: son?_

She starts to speak when she sees Jack coming their way, his coat already on. His eyes stop on Ryan's picture still plastered on the white board, then travel to the bullpen area and the open files and folders. A wry, humorless smile passes on his lips when he glimpses the empty donut box on the table.

"We have a lead on Julia's case," Vivian tells him.

"Good," he says, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. Setting his dark gaze on Sam, he adds quietly, "They found Ryan's body."

_tbc…_


	9. Video Tapes

Sorry for the delay. It wasn't due to a writer's block, just... a writer's vacation. -g-

Thank you very much for the reviews. It's always great to get some feedback− and for those who've read it, I hope you liked Deathly Hallows! There are no HP reference in this chapter, but I might consider it for later ; )

Chapter 9 - Video Tapes  
_Same day_

"Dude, is that even a real DB?"

Strangers peer over shoulders, thinking they'll catch a glimpse of the latest scene of _CSI: Manhattan_ being filmed, and she feels weary and tired, like she's aged ten years in the span of an hour. It's ironic and incredibly unfair, she thinks, to have so many people around Ryan's frozen body when he died alone.

"Damn it! We just let him die."

There's nothing for Jack to slam so he takes a deep breath, looks heavenward as if the dark clouds will give him the answer. Too disturbed to even consider denying it, she stops at his side.

"Coroner says he's been dead less than four hours." He turns tortured eyes to her. "Four hours, Sam."

If she thought finding Ryan would solve things, it obviously doesn't solve others. In a low voice, because there are onlookers and a couple of reporters lurking around the scene, she asks him, "The stab wounds− they're Irina's trademark?"

He nods. "Six inches steel blade, serrated edge. Mathew had the same marks." He pauses, lowers his eyes. "So did Jeremy."

Wanting to reassure him that they'll catch her, but unsure of how he might react, she waits a few seconds. "You want to tell Viv and Martin tonight about Irina?"

He shakes his head, and starts to think about their next moves. It's only a matter of time, she knows, until the story breaks out. That leaves no place for indecision.

"Let's wait for your contact to do his job first. I'll talk to Van Doren, ask for more agents. I want another team to work on the regular cases so we can concentrate on Irina." Gazing in the distance, Jack adds, "She'll move on quickly. We'll have to be quicker."

o o § o o

Late afternoon finds Samantha gazing intensely at the vending machine, a couple of coins in one hand and a file in the other. Remembering who she interviewed today is easy; deciding if she'd rather have a Sprite or a Diet Coke is another matter altogether.

She remains immobile for nearly five minutes, until Martin finally rises from the seat he's taken to eat a sandwich. "Coins go right here," he points at the slot.

"Yeah," she says, but makes no move to pay.

Worried, he looks at her. "Are you okay?"

She hesitates. She wants to give him an explanation, but instead decides, "I want a coffee."

He smiles, goes to the coffee pot before he hands her a Styrofoam cup. It's not very hot, but it'll do.

Spotting the file she's holding, and her thoughtful expression, he crosses his arms over his chest. "Was it that bad?"

The crime scene? Yes, she wants to tell him. It _was _bad. "No worse than last time."

Giving a brief nod, he offers, "You should get some rest."

"Off days aren't supposed to start until midnight." She grimaces at the thought of being home tomorrow. She'd rather come in. Considering the circumstances, she has every reason to. Having read information on Irina Connelly gives her a head start in tracking her down, and they need all the help they can get.

She doubts Jack would share her view on the matter, though. She's maxed on overtime. And she could convince anyone that she doesn't need the rest; just not him.

"Thanks for the coffee, Martin."

o o § o o

It's been forty-one minutes since Jack sent Martin home, and only thirty-three since he left, having taken the time to hand over his signed report on Ryan's case. Vivian's still working, sifting through papers and notes. By the time she rises and walks to the white board, Samantha's through with her report, though she'd rather wait for her colleague to leave and add the details here and there that might have escaped her attention.

Walking to the white board, Vivian removes the picture and erases the name while Samantha stares. Ryan Carthy, NY 7A-583027. Cases that end in death always end in silence, with the sound of a board being wiped clean, and nothing to celebrate. Both lost in thought, they don't notice someone else has walked in until Jack clears his throat.

Heart beating a little faster than usual, Samantha looks up at him hopefully. Meanwhile, Vivian glimpses the phone their boss is holding and, already able to tell something major's happened, quickly asks Jack about it.

"I got a call from Peter Davis− the head of the CSI team." He sends Sam a fleeting but grateful look, then launches into the story she's been hoping to hear: Ryan's and Mathew's cases are linked, and the murderer is a woman named Irina Connelly. Tapping his fingers against Danny's desk, he explains, "The stab marks are similar, so is the MO. They don't have fingerprints or DNA available for comparison, but the knife is definitely the same."

Making a mental note to hug Eric for his discretion, Sam observes her colleague's reaction.

"A woman," Vivian comments. She catches Jack's expression, putting two and two together skillfully. "Do you know her?"

"Unfortunately." Keeping his thoughts to himself, he checks his watch, then decides there's nothing they can do about it tonight. "I'll brief you with the boys in the morning, Viv. In the meantime, get some rest."

Knowing that it's pointless to inquire further, Vivian files out, handing Jack her report as she goes. He watches her leave, his eyes following her until she disappears from sight, and then he turns to the only person left in the bullpen. His shoulders relaxing slightly, he says, "Thank your contact for me."

"I will." Spotting Vivian's clean desk, Sam looks at her own, cluttered area, and promises herself to sort it out before she leaves. "I'm almost up-to-date on the reports you gave me to read," she tells him, seizing the occasion of them being alone to address the issue.

"Anything useful?"

"There are some interesting details. Your report at the time was pretty thorough." She doesn't give him time to speak. "There's one thing missing."

"Which is…?" He raises his eyes curiously.

"The video of Irina's trial. I'd like to see a copy of it."

"Why?"

She keeps her expression neutral. "I'd like to know how she behaved in court. Back at the time her behavior might have been odd, but recent events might shed light over it."

He shrugs. "I think it's a waste of time."

"I don't," she frowns. "Maybe she was already planning out the next murders at the time. In this case, the tapes can be useful. There might be clues there."

"It isn't justified," he says stubbornly.

Not sure what his reluctance means, she throws her hands in the air between them. "A serial killer's on the loose, Jack. It's a hundred percent justified."

He raises his hands in defeat. "Fine. The tapes are in my office, you can have them."

He sinks into Danny's chair next, turning it to face her. They look at each other for a moment, neither wanting to ask how the other is coping with the aftermath of Ryan's death.

He's the one who finally speaks, his voice quiet. "I was so sure Irina would… wait. Maybe leave us time to find Ryan alive… It's stupid, isn't it?"

"No, Jack. It's not." Trying to be objective, and not let her hatred for Irina Connelly seep into her words, she clarifies, "She was a friend of yours. I can't imagine what it feels like for you, but I know if someone close to me became a serial killer, I'd have a hard time believing it."

He nods, grateful for the support. Eyes landing on the clock, he checks his watch with a frown, almost surprised to see how late it is. "You know, getting some rest applies to you too."

"It's not midnight yet."

"Two minutes," he says, and she can't miss the warm smile in his voice. She forgets about her report, fidgeting instead with a paperclip on her desk.

They fall silent, and he watches her for a moment. Catching his gaze, she hands him a paperclip, and he holds it in his palm, old memories handing in the air. She refuses to think of them, but still allows herself to breach the barrier between professional and personal. "How're your girls?"

His features relax, his face lightening. "Good. They came back from their grandparents today. They've been so excited about Christmas for the past few weeks they even insisted on decorating the tree themselves."

"Kate still believes in Santa Claus, doesn't she?"

An affectionate smile appears on Jack's lips. "No, not anymore. But she wants to make us believe that she does." He chuckles. "She sent Father Christmas a list, insisting on posting it herself without showing us. She wanted us to tell her that we _needed _to see that list."

Sam can't help but giggle at the thought. There's something light and comfortable about tonight…

"So do you, uh, have plans for Christmas?"

Her grin fades. She knows he's only trying to carry on with normal conversation, but it's not a tactful way to do so. He, of all people, should know that she wouldn't have anything planned for Christmas…

Even if she does.

"I have a dinner."

He watches her with an expression she can't decipher. "You do?"

"Yes." She ponders whether telling him more. When she told Danny last week that she had plans for Christmas, it was a lie; but Eric asked her if she wanted to go with him to a Christmas party− or dinner, as he'd put it: NYPD cops have parties, CSIs have tuxedo dinners with gala dresses and champagne. "I get to dress up," she adds glibly.

Once again, his expression is guarded, though she does detect a hint of something she can't recognize in his eyes. Maybe he remembers what she looks like when she's dressed up to the nines. Maybe he remembers what she looks like when she isn't dressed at all.

Pushing the thought aside quickly, she does her best not to stare at his slackened tie for too long. He's back with his wife, back home, with husband obligations, chores, kids to tuck in every night. She holds his gaze, meeting his eyes with her melancholic ones as they allow themselves a few more moments together before calling it a night.

o o § o o

The rewind and fast-forward buttons on her remote have never been so useful. It's late, but she needs to see it tonight, if only to know what Irina Connelly's voice sounds like.

The woman on screen mesmerizes her. The aura around Irina is palpable, the court silent as she goes over the alleged rape in a voice raw with emotion. Fascinating. Really. The brilliance of the act leaves Sam speechless on her couch. No physical evidence of aggression, a young woman wandering around the city with a hunter knife, a dead, murdered Marine, and she fooled them all. Attempted rape.

In the courtroom, there is a silent jury, a couple of police officers with badges, a tired judge. The line between victim and killer blurs as she plays with their minds, plays the victim. First degree murder turns into self-defense. Death row turns into a prison sentence of fifteen years. A quiet day in court, a convincing defense attorney, a seemingly harmless woman, and Irina Connelly is sentenced to fifteen years. She stands, waiting to be escorted out.

Then he comes in.

Sam has to stop and rewind the tape. He's younger on the video, with shorter, darker hair. It flashes through her mind that he hasn't testified, that it's always been his mentor, John, on the microphone.

While the room clears, people gathering their jackets, Jack walks forward deliberately, at a slow pace. When he reaches her, a couple of policemen stop him, but he takes out his badge and they back off. Suddenly, he's facing the woman he once considered a friend, the woman who cold-bloodedly murdered an innocent Marine.

Sam narrows her eyes, trying to make out more details on the old tapes. Clearly something's going on there. The commotion in the room progressively subsides, someone passes in front of the surveillance camera, Irina says something inaudible.

Jack leans forward, whispering something to her. Irina takes his hand. He nods solemnly, squeezing it in return.

_tbc... _


	10. Day Off

Some Danny/Sam friendship in this chapter. tidbit: oh, you'll find out. I'm not saying when, though ; )

Chapter 10- Day off  
_Following Day - Lunchtime_

CSIs, after all, are not very different from FBI agents. They share the same passion for law enforcement, the same feeling of satisfaction when the good guys win and the bad guys go to jail. It's pleasant to discuss the aspects of the job with someone who understands, and by the time dessert is served, Samantha realizes she's very much into the conversation. Eric digs into his cheesecake, grinning when he sees Sam's disgusted look.

"Admit it," she chooses to pursue the subject, "A CSI's job is less dangerous than an FBI agent's."

"But more complicated," he retaliates in between mouthfuls of the God-awful cake. "It's all about details and fine-tuning. Inspecting a crime scene's an art. You have to pay attention to every element, learn the techniques."

"What, like fingerprinting?"

"Exactly. You guys don't even know to lift prints properly."

"Because we don't have the right tools, Eric. You don't think I could manage with a CSI's kit and powder?"

He scratches his chin. "Well, you're blonde."

Flabbergasted, she finds she doesn't even know what to reply.

A joking grin lights up his expression. "I think−"

"You actually think?" she mocks, getting even.

"Ah. Never mind," he laughs.

She tastes a bite of her pie, remembering her conversation with Martin as she savors the cherries and crusty dough. They fall silent for a minute, idle chat and forks the only sounds in background. Having lunch with Eric on her day off wasn't such a bad idea, after all. She's glad to see him outside of work, outside of the confines of an office.

"What does it feel like, getting shot?"

She freezes at the question.

"Eric−" she warns, not wanting him to go there because for the first time in days she was actually enjoying lunch.

His eyes meet hers, and she can tell he needs to know, needs her to tell him if his partner felt the blazing pain and his own blood pouring from a hole so deep it leaves a void inside you, an emptiness where there used to be flesh.

"Nothing," she lies. "You don't have time to think."

"Not even about what's happening?"

"No. It doesn't hurt, it's numb, and then… then it's dark." And you fall, she wants to tell him. "Then you stop thinking, Eric, and it just… it kind of feels blurred, you know?"

He considers her words, considers what Alex's life became in those last seconds. Knowing where his thoughts are drifting and why, she attempts to find the few words of comfort that always escape her. "You couldn't know Alex was going to die, Eric. It could've been anyone… it could've been no one."

"I know," he says with a defeated sigh. "I just… sometimes I wonder what if… what if it had been me and whether I would have given my life to save that little girl and if I hadn't… what does that make me, Samantha?"

Shifting uncomfortably in her restaurant chair, she tries to ease his guilt. "It wasn't your fault," she says forcefully. She, of all people, knows what happens when you lose yourself in the what-ifs.

Eric takes out some cash, nodding in silence. "I'm sorry. I'm not very good company," he suddenly laughs. "How much for the psych consult?"

She laughs it off as well. "I think I'd make a dreadful shrink." Tilting her chin at his wallet, she reminds him, "I'm buying. I invited you, remember?"

"It used to be the other way around."

"Yeah, but I owe you."

"It wasn't so hard," he shrugged. "All I had to do was tell my boss the wound marks on Mathew and Ryan fit the marks found on Jeremy Holloway fifteen years ago. If you hadn't told me about Irina Connelly in the first place, we still wouldn't have anything to link the cases. Now my boss thinks I'm a genius." He rises from the table, and she follows him as they exit the restaurant.

Stepping out, he turns to her curiously. "Am I ever going to know the whole story?"

Sam hesitates. "Oh, I don't know. You might."

"On another one of your days off?"

She thinks about the piles of files she's supposed to review. Somehow, day off and leisure time have completely opposite meanings. "We've got a lot on our plates nowadays− tons of paperwork. I'm not sure I'll ever see the dawn of another day off."

"Well then, good luck," he says supportively. Pausing, he waits a second before asking, "Are we still on for Christmas eve?"

"Definitely."

o o § o o

She doesn't know what she expects. Maybe for the video to have changed since the previous evening. The tapes are old, grainy, with grey horizontal lines on the images every now and then− not DVD quality, but they certainly show more than enough.

She replays the last scene. The slow approach, the badge raised so that the other officers back away.

What was so important for Jack to tell Irina in a courtroom? Why the sudden need to talk? Why the whispers, inaudible but for Irina, why the silent promise he seemed to be settling with the hand-squeeze?

Sam leans back into her couch, the files she has to go over piled on the coffee table. One last question tugs at her mind before she turns off the TV, and it's the one that troubles her the most.

Why didn't Jack want her to see the tapes?

o o § o o

"Oh, wow," Sam says as she opens her apartment door in the evening. She laughs, slightly hysterical. "My God, Danny, you've bought Thai food for twelve?"

"I figured you'd be hungry," he says lightly. "Who wouldn't be, after so much paperwork?"

She refrains from telling him that she has enough left-over as it is, and then she turns to him questioningly. He'd said he'd call her to update her on the day's events, but him showing up for dinner is unexpected. For a second, she considers protesting− saying she's tired, which is true, and not hungry, which also happens to be true. However, she can't find the heart to dash his joyful mood.

"I asked for some extra spicy sauce," Danny explicates, and for a moment cardboard boxes hover dangerously in the air.

"Ah," she comments, saving him the trouble of having to balance them in a pile by grabbing the top box. "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger, is that it?"

"My point exactly." He sighs in relief when the assortment of spicy sauces, pork chops, and fried rice arrives safely on the kitchen table.

After ten minutes of casual conversation, finding something to drink to complete the takeout, and a couple of paper napkins that the Thai restaurant forgot to include on the menu, they both take comfortable seats on her couch.

"So are you going to tell me why you're here?"

"I just thought you could use it."

Samantha looks down at her plate. "The food?"

"The company."

"Right." She starts to eat, finding out that she's hungrier than expected. And, well, it's nice not to be alone with the files and video footage. She still doesn't know what to think of what she saw on the latter.

"Jack briefed us this morning about Irina Connelly. The CSI team did a really good job of finding coincidences between Ryan, Mathew, and the guy she killed back in '87."

Sam simply nods, knowing Eric couldn't have done it better. Just then, Danny adds, "She's a real sick one."

She puts her chopsticks down for a moment, asking carefully, "What did Jack tell you?"

"Irina Connelly, forty-one year old female, born in Pittsburgh from an American father and an Irish mother who'd moved to the States as a kid. Lost her father when she was young, went to school like every kid in the block, then went to College," Danny recites, like a well-learned lesson. "She has a Master's degree in Psychology, and a grudge against the Marines who presumably killed her father."

Sam already knows this, but it doesn't hurt to hear it summarized once more.

"Jack went to College with her." Danny waits, trying to figure out how Sam reacts to this news. When she doesn't, he continues, "In June 1987 she killed her first Marine, Jeremy Holloway, getting away with only a mild sentence because she claimed self-defense. She was quiet for fifteen years, biding her time. Prison affects most people, but Jack said she was pretty calm the last time he saw her."

"You mean in court."

"No, in prison."

At this, Samantha's head shots up. Trying to keep her voice even, she asks, "He went to visit her?"

"About ten years ago, but I guess it doesn't count now that she's out. Jack told you all this, didn't he?"

Making a mental note to ask Jack about this visit, Sam tries to sort out her feeling. If there's one good thing that came out of the past few days, it's the renewed comfort Jack and she have with each other. She wants to treasure the thought, but has to face the obvious: there are things he's not telling her.

"How are you, Sam?" Danny asks out of the blue.

Startled out of her thoughts, she answers, "Good." Seeing his doubtful frown, she sighs, pushing some fried rice on the side. "I don't know."

"Why not?"

"Because…" she doesn't even know where to start. Laughing to shake off the question, she points out, "You're starting to act like my shrink."

"Your shrink brings you takeout for dinner?" Danny jokes. Eating a bite, he chews and declares, "You should rest more often." And at her annoyed expression, he adds, "You have to rest, Sam. You never leave the office."

"I did today."

"You know what I mean."

She has to admit it's true. But she loves her job. Mostly, she likes to walk past Jack's office on some nights, picturing him in her mind, seeing the tilt of his head or his hunched shoulders. She can have him that way; she can love him without having to think of what it means, without having to think of rules, wives, OPR reviews. "I like it at the office."

"But it's not home, Sam."

"It feels like it sometimes."

"Because Jack's there?"

She's surprised Danny's decided to be so direct. Maybe it's a result of that spicy Thai sauce− it frees the tongue. Looking at him, she lets the question float in the air before she suddenly realizes why it is that Danny is the only one she can talk to about Jack. He's never judged her, never given her those snide comments that have the power to hurt. He's always just accepted the facts, been distant yet supportive, quiet yet always there when she needed him.

"You've never commented on it." She looks away, adds quietly, "On us."

He digs into his cardboard takeout container, taking another bite, the question always easier than the answer. "Does it matter?" he asks slowly.

"To me, yes."

"What do you want me to say, Sam?" he replies. "He was married. _Is _still married. Do I think it was wrong? Yes. Would I change it if I could? No." She looks up at his last words. "I've seen the way you look at him. The way he looks at you. And… there are things you can't change."

"Like what?"

He pauses, as if surprised of having said so much already. He averts his eyes, drops them on his plate of rice, as if wondering as well about the side effects of the spicy Thai food.

"Jack and you. You have… I don't know, you just have this bond, this thing that's so obvious. Like… you're his and he's yours despite everything else and you're always going to be together somewhere near the heavens."

She smiles at him sadly. "I wish that were true, Danny."

Making a conscious effort to drive the conversation out of these waters, she changes the subject. "Don't you have some good news to cheer me up? Didn't the Mets win a game or something?" she asks, knowing that regular season doesn't start until April.

"I've heard a record got broken last night."

Puzzled, she waits. "Really?"

"Yeah. They've sold more Christmas front-door bells than ever before in New York," he grins.

She reaches sideways and steals his chopsticks, and he quickly attempts to take hers− except she's made sure they were out of his reach. Laughing, he takes her cardboard plate.

"You're got the sticks and I've got the food− trade?"

She laughs with him, shakes her head, and hands him his chopsticks. She gets back what's left of her fried rice.

"They found Julia safe and sound," Danny says, seriously.

Sam leans back against the couch. Julia Thompson, the wife who disappeared after her conference in Dallas. "Alone?"

"No. I was leaving this news for dessert, but since you're asking… she tried to get her kid back− Richie. It turns out you were right, she'd given him up for adoption, then decided she couldn't live without knowing her son. Her plan was to leave with him and go to Atlanta."

Curious, she wonders, "What's in Atlanta?"

"She had an interview there for a job. She really wanted to change her life. It's going to work out for her; the foster family agreed it was best for Richie to visit his mom from time to time. After a trial period, it'll be up to him to choose whether or not he'll live with her. And the husband said he'd file for divorce."

Dropping her shoulders, like a weigh's been lifted off them, Sam lets her gaze travel to the empty takeout container, and she's a bit taken aback when she discovers how much they've eaten. The pork chops for twelve look like they were indeed for two. Rising, she stretches her legs and gathers the remains of their dinner− dirty plates and napkins− with the hope that Julia can finally live the life she wants.

Danny follows her to the kitchen to help, then suddenly freezes in the doorway. "Samantha?" he looks surprised and maybe a little bit uncomfortable.

"What?" she shoves the plates in the trashcan.

"Why are you carrying your gun inside your apartment?"

Her eyes drop to the holster clipped to her belt, her fingertips grazing the cool metal of her brand new Glock 23. She knows its characteristics by heart. 21.16 oz empty, 31.03 if loaded. Trigger pull, 5.5 lbs, with 13 bullets. She knows what it feels like when one of these .40 S&W, straight, rimless bullets breaks through layers of skin and flesh and what sound it makes.

Jack has a loathing for guns she never understood until the day she saw her own weapon pointed at her, until she saw the blood on the red carpet and his stained shirt, the darkness in his gaze.

"Are you feeling unsafe?" Danny worries. After a second, something seems to click in his mind. "Jack… There's something Jack and you aren't talking about. Something about this case. Isn't there?"

She shakes her head. "This is personal, Danny. This case is… personal."

"And Jack's wife and kids? Are they in danger too?"

"No, no. They're not. He− Jack doesn't think his family's the target. Connelly wants his career… his reputation. That's what she's after."

"And how is she going to do that? By killing innocents so that Jack looks bad on TV?"

Sam doesn't answer. She knows how Jack's reputation can be ruined. She leans back against the counter, thinking about the pictures in Irina's possession. Her scheme is clearer now that it was before. Blackmailing Jack was the first step; killing Marines was the second. Using the pictures comes third.

"Samantha−"

"Don't start, Danny."

He looks hurt and a bit uncertain and like all true friends, though, he does exactly the contrary, and comes to stand in front of her. Knowing it won't go away just because she says so.

"Oh God," she whispers, feeling desperate.

And like all friends, he wraps her in a hug, giving her some amount of comfort, and a shoulder to cry on.

_tbc..._


	11. Accomplice

I've updated with two new chapters... hopefully that's make up for the delay. Thanks to all the wonderful people who took time to read and review!

Chapter 11 - Accomplice  


Early the next morning they're all in the bullpen, ready to start the day− the calendar on Vivian's desk reads _December 22__rd_, a reminder that Christmas is disturbingly close. Jack arrives shortly after the rest of the team, holding a file and wearing a grim expression.

"Uh-oh," Danny says, knowing this means someone went missing.

Their boss comes to stand at the head of the meeting table. His tie is impeccably straight, his face clean-shaven, yet Sam can't help but notice his disquiet, and the dark bags under his eyes.

"Andrew Whitewood," he shows them the picture of a young, brown-haired individual. "Missing for eleven hours." Giving a short glance at the empty white board, he adds quietly, "He's a United States Marine."

A long, uncomfortable silence greets his words. Apparently Jack more than briefed the team about Irina Connelly; he also told them they'd be breathing this case for as long as she was still running.

"Any chance it's a copycat?" Martin asks, though he doesn't seem to believe it himself.

Jack shakes his head, explaining that Andrew went missing the previous night after a game of flipper at a café, which means he was probably drugged and kidnapped in the same way as the others. Furthermore, the press has yet to link the disappearances− though it's obvious the story could break out anytime.

"Here's what we have so far: an eye-witness was able to remember a partial plate number on a black Taurus parked in front of the café− I'm ready to bet that it's the one Keith saw. Danny, I want you to check it out. Viv, go back to the scene, see what the customers can tell you. Try to find Andrew's cup of coffee− we'll need some evidence to prove that he was drugged. Get forensics on it." He pauses, then decides, "Martin, Sam, tour pharmacies. We have to find out where Irina is buying Nitrazepam. It's urgent that we figure out her whereabouts. I'll handle Andrew's parents. We'll meet back here after lunch."

Sam checks her watch, then rises. Jack motions for her to stay behind, so she does, hanging back.

"I told Van Doren about Irina."

She frowns, not sure why he's telling her this. Of course he'd have to tell Van Doren and keep her updated about the current state of affairs. "And?"

"There's a lot of pressure from Washington. They want this handled quickly and smoothly. The Army's going to start looking into it on Monday morning if Andrew doesn't report to base. The last thing we need is to be looking for a deserter."

Sam tilts her head aside, making sure no one's in the vicinity. "You told Van Doren about the pictures?"

"No."

She sighs, trying to sort out the mess that have become her thoughts. "Maybe you should. She should hear it from you first. If Irina starts sending them around… if OPR hears from this… believe me Jack, we can't shrug that off like phone logs."

In a low voice, he answers, "We'll deal with it when the time comes."

She wants to discuss this, or else ask about what she saw on the video tapes the previous day. But before she has the time to speak again, Jack goes around the meeting table, his tone leaving no doubt that he wants to end the conversation. "Right now, let's concentrate on finding Andrew."

o o § o o

On their fifth drugstore, Martin and Sam finally get a hit− it's neither luck nor intuition, just the result of a very long morning. They have a list of drugstores to tour, something important for the case, but downright tedious.

"Yeah, yeah, I saw her. That lady came in, so what, now it's a crime?"

"You sold her Mogadon without prescription. _That's _a crime."

"So shoot me."

Sam rolls her eyes. The place is shabby and quite frankly the same can be said about the guy behind the counter. It'd be too much to hope for security cameras, and clearly a registry of customers is the last thing they'll find here. They can only rely on the cashier's hazy memory.

"I think she said she'd lost her prescription and was going away for a while. She looked like she needed it, ok?"

"She's a good actor. Do you provide anyone with anything they want?"

"Listen, the guys in this 'hood are after morphine, meth, any kind of dope that'll get them high. This chick in stilettos comes asking for something to sleep better, what was I gonna say?"

Martin sighs. "Yeah, yeah, you're just saving America."

When they're out of the drugstore a few minutes later, Martin turns to Sam. "Chick in stilettos?" he raises an eyebrow.

"Let's just say she must've been wearing something other than snickers. Let's get back to the office, see what the others found."

"Hang on," Martin tells her, motioning at the woman standing across the street. Dressed in high heels, with gaudy make-up and a short, slinky top, it leaves little doubt as to what she's doing here. Sam is instantly reminded of the neighborhood they're in.

Crossing the street in a few strides, they both head for the hooker, Sam blinking in the dazzling light and startled when a drop of water splatters on her arm. The weather is capricious today, with cold rain, almost slush, that comes in waves when they expect it less.

"What's up? What are ya investigating on?"

Martin looks down at his black trenchcoat and polished shoes. Sharing a glance with Sam, he feigns incomprehension. "What do you mean?"

"Ya know," a knowing look follows the statement. "FBI, aren't ya?"

Curious, Samantha steps under the awning of the nearest food joint, hoping to escape the rain. "What makes you think that?"

"Only two types of people walk 'round like that, unafraid."

"So the FBI's one type," Martin supposes. "What's the other?"

"Drug dealers. But ya don't look like 'em."

Marin takes out his sunglasses, puts them on for better effect. "How's that?"

"Worse," the young woman laughs. "All right, you two got my attention. What'd you need?"

Samantha retrieves a picture of Irina Connelly from her coat's pocket. It's not exactly up-to-date, but it's sufficient to identify Irina. "Do you recognize her? We've been told she's been in this neighbourhood last week."

A quick look at the picture is followed by a nod. "Yeah, that's Sara."

"Sara," Martin repeats, surprised. "Are you sure?"

"Yep. Hung out with her a couple weeks ago."

o o § o o

"We're being handed this case," Jack declares in the afternoon. Explaining that he's been to Van Doren's office again twice in the morning, he adds, "We've agreed it was best to deal with this one ourselves instead of dividing the team. Agents Tass and Kaiser from the Washington Missing Persons Unit will be handling the other cases that come in." Serious, he looks at them in turn and then warns, "No press statements for the moment. When news of this gets out, a lot of people are going to think they saw Irina down the street. Let's not make the city panic. We're going to have enough reporters asking for information as it is."

"Never heard of Tass and Kaiser," Danny comments, "Are these guys any good?"

Jack laughs unexpectedly. "You'll find out for yourselves. You shouldn't see them too often, they'll be given an office upstairs." Gesturing at Vivian to go ahead with what she's found, he listens to the team's reports.

"I found discarded coffee cups," Vivian explains. "They're being tested for Nitrazepam, but the results won't be back for a while. Andrew was at the café from eight PM to approximately nine-thirty, at which point he started acting like he'd had more than caffeine. Not much with the surveillance cameras," she passes out a couple of black-and-white pictures from the security tapes. "This pillar hides the flipper from view, so as far as we know the woman standing next to Andrew could be anyone. The bartender, however, remembered her clearly and recognized her. It was Irina Connelly, for sure. When Andrew walked out, she followed."

"I've checked into Irina's background some more," Danny reads his notes. "Her mother died two year after her father was murdered− after that, Irina went from foster home to foster home− I lost track of the number of families. She emptied her bank accounts two weeks ago. She had about $5,000, mostly what she'd saved between College and jail." Danny taps his pen on his notepad restlessly. "She made a $1,000 donation to an orphanage before she disappeared with the rest of the money."

"If she grew up as a foster kid, that's understandable," Martin supposes.

Samantha interrupts, "No, it's not." Seeing four pairs of eyes trained on her, she reminds them, "She killed Jeremy, she killed Mathew, then Ryan, and now she's got Andrew. What kind of a serial killer donates money to Charity before murdering people?"

"If she's trying to redeem herself−"

"Then she wouldn't have killed them _after _donating money. Samantha's right," Martin says, giving her some support. "There's something abnormal about this woman, but she's got one hell of a brain."

"Agreed," Vivian nods. "She's obviously putting on different faces, changing roles. First she was a studious, quiet kid, then she became a killer− ritualistic and decided to avenge her father's death. But she's never been an angel."

Jack, who's been listening to the debate, suddenly interrupts. "Let's stop theorizing and conjecturing, it won't give us answers. Danny, back to the facts: have you followed up on the plate trace?"

"Yes," Danny's answer comes quickly− Jack's tone is curt, edgy, making Samantha wonders how many hours of sleep he had last night. "The partial plate number gave me back twenty or so possible vehicles, but so far only one has been reported stolen. The owner, Clive Kyson, filed a complaint last week. His story checks out."

"How do you know it's the right car?"

"Black Taurus," Danny explains. "That's the one Keith recognized in front of the coffee shop when Ryan was abducted. Add to that the partial plate match, and it can only be the one Irina used to abduct Andrew. I've put an APB so if someone sees that car, we'll know."

Jack seems pleased with the info. He looks at Martin and Sam next. "You two have anything interesting?"

"Definitely. Irina bought Mogadon last week in southern Harlem, the drugstore tenant remembered her. She came in without prescription, paid cash, left quickly− claimed she had trouble sleeping."

Jack gives Martin a disbelieving look. "Anything else?"

"A hooker recognized Irina. Apparently our suspect calls herself Sara."

Taken aback at this news, Danny, Vivian and Jack wait for further explanations.

"She was looking for information about a street gang," Sam clarifies. "I think it's worth looking into. She wanted to know about a group that used to call themselves the '10 circles'. They're a gang that dates back from the 60's, but apparently it broke into different groups over the years, got involved in some pretty nasty business. Drugs, weapons, murders, connections with the mob."

Jack nods thoughtfully. "Okay, Samantha, check it out, try to figure out what piece of information she wanted." Thinking of another angle, he tells Danny, "Try to find out who took that car. Dig in deeper, I want to know who her accomplice is."

"Irina could have stolen the car herself. What makes you think she has an accomplice?" Vivian questions interestedly.

Shooting a quick glance in Sam's direction, he answers, "It's an EG."

Danny crosses his arms, and turns to their boss. "New profiling technique?"

An amused smile plays on Jack's lips. "Educated guess."

o o § o o

The interior that greets them is small, with cream-colored walls. The minuscule corridor leads to a bedroom and a family room with a kitchen counter and dishes on the sink− clean, but left there to dry.

Jack was right about Irina having an accomplice: using the theft of the Black Taurus, as well as a good amount of luck, Danny was able to reduce the list of possible suspects down to three. One of them has a good alibi, the second one was in Lexington, Kentucky for the past week. That leaves them with Patrick Hardt, a thirty-five years old New Yorker who had dealings with the police before.

"Not bad for a car thief− or at least, ex car thief," Vivian tours the apartment with her eyes while Samantha directs her attention to the living room.

Vivian finds a frame, and leans in for closer scrutiny. "Looks like he went fishing last summer."

"It doesn't tell us where he is now," Samantha says regretfully, going to examine the shelves near the left wall, past the sofa. She'd been expecting to find junk piled up, maybe some drugs, a messy place. This is surprisingly neat. If Danny had come along, he might have joked about this guy being awarded a cleaning medal.

Shifting aside a pile of CDs, she calls, "Hey, Viv? What do you make of this?"

Her colleague crosses the room. She looks at what Sam's showing her, her expression turning to puzzlement. "A Bible? And religious books?" Looking once more around the clean, tidy room, she adds, "Maybe he was trying to go from sinner to saint."

Smiling in spite of herself, Samantha lets her eyes journey further up the shelves. An old dictionary, a collection of baseball trophies, a couple of DVDs. Above them, a pile of scratch paper, various books ranging from history volumes to science fiction stories, a few sports magazines, and a camera. She dismisses the latter, then goes back to it, giving a quick glance over her shoulder. Vivian is currently examining the kitchen counter, so Samantha reaches for the camera and turns it over for further inspection.

Heart racing, she looks around for films, but finds nothing except an envelope.

A large manila envelope, just like the one−

"Nothing out of place," Vivian comes back. "But nothing fresh in the fridge either. The bills are a few days old. I don't think he's been here in a while. A couple of days, maybe more… It doesn't look like he was a friend of Irina's, I can't find any indication that they knew each other." Looking at the shelves, she asks, "Anything interesting?"

Sam swallows. Throat dry, she nods. "Yeah, a camera, no films."

"Mmm," Vivian checks the camera, "Canon SLR film camera. Fully automatic 35mm autofocus. Fairly recent model… less than two years." Seeing Samantha both surprised and impressed, she hastens to add, "Christmas is in two days and Marcus wants a camera. I think by now I know everything there is to know about adjustable film speed, lens types, and flash ranges." A quick smile, and she hands the camera back to Sam. "What's this?"

"The most interesting part: there's a name on the envelope. _Sara._"

"Aka Irina Connelly," Vivian takes out her phone, seemingly glad that they've found more than useless information. It's a break, at last. "I'll tell Jack we have solid evidence to link Patrick Hardt to our investigation."

Samantha bags the envelope. Only one thing left to do now, she knows: find the guy. She's convinced that Patrick Hardt was the one who took the pictures of Jack and her together. She can imagine him, tall, camera in hand, his eyes searching in the night while they're at the motel, or in Jack's car− she can almost hear the click and see the picture being taken with the same deadly, calculated precision that Irina uses to finish off her victims.

What if Vivian had found the films and more pictures in Patrick Hardt's apartment? What would she have done with them? Had Jack sent her here with Vivian because he knew what they might find?

These questions, among others, occupy her thoughts when they drive back to the office, and later that night. There are too many ramifications to this case− too many questions, leads, disasters waiting to happen. Put together, the elements make a huge puzzle, with Irina and Jack in the middle and… Samantha wonders where she fits in.


	12. The Christmas Killer

Chapter 12 - The Christmas Killer

The next morning, and despite their best efforts to keep it quiet, news of Andrew's disappearance gets out. _Marine __killer on the run. _It looks good on TV. It makes the headlines, this title, it raises questions about what justice is doing nowadays. Being able to add that the whole series of murders has happened right before Christmas, that it's the worse time for families, etc, makes for good press articles. Irina has been nicknamed the _Christmas killer_− and described alternatively as a female psychopath, an escaped prisoner, or the victim of a manipulation… it goes on and on and Samantha gives up reading after the third article.

"Jack wants us to tour bars," Danny tells her, handing her car keys.

It is, apparently, their assignment for the next few hours. "You mind being a little less… vague?"

"Sure, M'lady," Danny says in a mock reverence as he passes her to reach his cubicle, giving a glance at the timeline, and another one outside. "We're to show Irina's picture around, make sure anyone who sees her calls it in." Waving in the direction of the map spread out on the central table, he adds, "We're being helped by some uniforms, but it doesn't hurt to give them a hand. We have a six block sector to cover," he circles an area with the tip of his fingers.

Sam rubs her chin. "That's a lot of bars, Danny."

"Yep. I hope you're thirsty."

Resisting the need to grumble, Sam wonders what got into Jack when he handed them this assignment. It's cold and wet outside, and this doesn't lighten her mood. Instead of doing this, she believes trying to locate Patrick Hardt would be more productive− there's a chance that the guy would lead them straight to Irina Connelly, after all.

After the tenth bar, Danny leans casually against a wooden pillar, waiting for the bartender to show up. Sam clasps her hands patiently− it's not like they haven't been told to wait at every bar. Bartenders, of course, sleep through mornings.

"Jack's worried."

She looks at Danny with mild interest. "A serial killer's on the loose. I would think everyone is."

"He hasn't been home in almost three days. I know it's not the first time, but still."

"He will be home for Christmas tomorrow night. It's what matters," she says reasonably, feeling slightly uncomfortable getting onto the subject. This case is getting to all of them, but to Jack in particular, and she's not sure she wants to talk about him with Danny right now. "The timing Irina chose to kill isn't ideal."

But serial killers, she tells herself, have a tendency to choose the wrong space in time to show up.

"Sir, I'm agent Taylor, this is agent Spade," Danny suddenly straightens, and walks to the man they've been waiting for. "We're with the FBI."

The bartender, in his fifties and with eyes still groggy from sleep, nods briefly. "What can I do for you?"

"We're looking for this woman. Have you seen her?" Danny, once again, waves the picture of Irina Connelly. "She might have come in alone in the last few days."

"Never seen her." A suspicious glance follows. "Nice girl. What'd she do?"

Danny sighs. "Thank you for your help, sir. If she comes in, please give us a call," he hands out his card.

o o § o o

"We've also done cafés, movie theaters, restaurants."

Jack puts down the coffee pot he's holding. They're in the room with the vending machines and the fridge; Sam found Jack there when they came back with Danny. "Any luck?"

"No," she gestures at the coffee pot, silently asking for a cup. "We might in the future, though: everyone knows Irina's picture by now."

Handing her a steaming cup, he gives her a questioning glance. "I'm surprised you and Danny didn't seize the opportunity to get a drink at Van Doren's expense."

"Danny tried," Sam tells him with a smirk. "Other than that… a lot of guys throwing snowballs with Christmas hats on. And sore feet," she adds. Her leg bothers her. It does, from time to time, when she walks too much.

Jack gives her a sympathetic look. Walking together to the bullpen with their respective coffees, they exchange a few words, and then he decides for a last team meeting before Vivian and Martin leave for their families. They all agree it's best to go over the information they've got at this point.

Sam and Danny take a seat, while Vivian's eyes stop on her desk, where the calendar now reads December 23rd. Next, she checks the clock on the wall− it's five PM− looking in a very un-Vivian way at the time with longing.

"Don't count your chickens before they're hatched," Martin reminds her, obviously eager to leave as well. He's got a flight booked for DC tonight since it's been agreed that Danny, Jack and Samantha would be in the office the next day, sorting things out before a thirty-six hour break. No one would be at the office on December 25th, but they'd be back on the 26th.

"The press, luckily, is building up its own story at this point," Jack starts. "It's all assumptions, the usual. Let's make sure it stays that way. Martin," he decides, indicating that he wants to discuss everyone's assignments, "Go ahead."

"The dosage of Nitrazepam it takes to drug a guy like Ryan or Andrew is fairly high. I've looked into it, Irina bought enough to drug about four more Marines. Viv can tell you about that."

"Viv?"

"Forensics found Nitrazepam on a coffee cup that also had Andrew's DNA. And Irina's prints. It places them both in the same café, and it proves that she drugged him."

"Also," Martin adds, "The CSI lab faxed us the results of Ryan's autopsy. Irina's fingerprints were all over the body. She's not even bothering to cover up her traces anymore, Jack."

"Good. She's getting reckless… Danny?"

"Forensics found absolutely no evidence that Irina went to Patrick Hardt's apartment. No fingerprints, no DNA, nothing− so she never set foot inside her accomplice's place. On the other hand, they confirmed he's the one who stole the Black Taurus, though whether he simply delivered it to Irina Connelly in exchange of payment, or actually took part in the murders of Mathew and Ryan is still left to determine."

"How would Patrick Hardt interact with Irina?"

Danny turns to Vivian, who's asked the question, and Sam listens, wanting to know what he thinks about it.

"I dunno," Danny looks in turn at Viv, then Jack. "She never went to his place, so maybe he went to hers. Or else… phone calls on a stolen cellular, or maybe they just meet somewhere."

"Or they use the mail," Jack says. "Hence the envelopes− envelope," he hastens to correct. "Something's telling me that if we find Patrick Hardt, we'll get a lot of answers." He turns to Viv and Martin next. "You guys seemed pleased with something. Any bright theories?"

Vivian and Martin share a contended look. "Yeah. You know, we couldn't leave without finding anything big."

"So we did," Vivian grins. "Actually, it's pretty big. We looked into the murder of Irina's father this afternoon. Here's what the reports say: two unidentified Marines, both part of the same gang with recognizable tattoos. They were tall, with short brown hair, and definitely United States Marines."

It hits Sam suddenly what Jeremy, Mathew, Ryan and Andrew all have in common. The description. It's not a very big stretch to assume that Irina's father was killed by Marines who matched that description. That explains the vengeance.

Danny lets out a low whistle. "So she's not targeting _any _Marine. She wants specific guys− guys who look like the Marines who killed her father."

Samantha leans forward. "What gang was it?" she asks, though she has a pretty good idea already.

"They called themselves the 10 Circles."

"Mmm," Jack says, recognizing the name. "That would explain a lot. Especially why Irina was looking everywhere for information on this gang: they killed her father, she wanted to know who they were."

"That's not it," Martin says. He's calm, but clearly excited. "Say the location of Jeremy's murder was random fifteen years ago."

"Okay," Jack doesn't seem to see his point, but waits patiently.

"We don't think the locations are random anymore." Martin rises and walks to the map of Central park pinned on the board near the window. "You see here?" he points at a red push-pin near 72th street. "That was where they found the first body in Central Park− Jeremy Holloway. He was found dead in an alley near Strawberry Fields. Now, Mathew McNeil's body was recovered from Sheap Meadows− West of the Friedsam carousel, near 66th Street." He pauses, points at another red dot. "Now add Ryan Carthy, found dead here− South of The Lake, near Cherry Hill."

Sam, along with Danny and Jack, stare at the map. "What do you think it means?"

"We think Irina's making a pattern. It's only an extrapolation, but she might be drawing a circle." Darkly, Martin adds, "With bodies."

Remaining silent, Jack considers this. It's obvious that he doesn't like to think about the crime scenes again, but his eyes remain fixed on the red push-pins. "She's organized and angry enough to do that," he says finally. "But if you're right…"

"If we're right, it means she'll kill seven more, until she's made a perfect circle of 10 bodies."

"If we're right, it means we're not close to seeing the end of these murders," Vivian empathizes.

For a while, they keep discussing the possibility that Irina has picked all the murder spots in advance. Clearly, there are a lot of potential locations to take into account. They don't have the time, or resources, to set up a surveillance. Even though they all hate it, they're forced to admit that for the moment, the team has hit a stumbling block. Until Patrick Hardt is caught, Andrew's body is found, or something unexpected arises, they have no more leads.

"Samantha? Anything to add?" Jack seems to note that she's been pretty quiet all this time.

At first, she can't quite pinpoint what it in that disquiets her. Something, she feels, is out of place… something they've missed, perhaps, about Irina Connelly's motive, or her methods, or the whole point of her vengeance. Her father was murdered, she tried to−

It suddenly falls into place. "Who was the witness?"

Puzzled, they all turn to her.

"Who witnessed Dr. Robert Connelly's murder back in 1964?" she clarifies.

"No one witnessed it," Martin presumes. "That's why the murderers were never caught. No one identified the Marines, and an innocent guy was arrested. Irina's family never got justice− hence Irina's vengeance."

Sam shakes her head. They obviously aren't on the same wavelength. "Irina's father died before he could describe his aggressors. Yet Irina is looking for Marines who are tall, have brown hair, tattoos," she recites. "We also know that Robert Connelly was killed by two Marines who were part of a local gang− the 10 Circles." She pauses, her pen on the table and her notepad closed. "How could this information _possibly _end up in a file if no one witnessed the murder?"

A flutter of activity follows her words− Martin checks the said file, Danny rubs his chin, Jack swears under his breath because he _should have thought of this. _Vivian, like always, is quick to recover. "If you're right, Irina's probably trying to find this witness… has been trying for a while. If she succeeded, this witness might help us find her."

"There's nothing here," Martin reads the old documents again. "No names, no addresses. Either they wanted to protect the witness, or they were happy not to mention this person in the file− presumably because they wanted the case closed quickly."

"Talk about expeditious justice," Danny says somberly. "So we have no lead?"

"Just a number, 58302. Jack, any idea what it's referring to?"

Their boss shakes his head. "It's a forty-year-old case. Back then the Bureau had different filing systems, paper documents…" he leans back into his chair. "I'd need to look into it, find someone who can tell us more about what this number means."

At this, Vivian rises. "I'll take care of it," she says mysteriously, taking out her phone. She walks away, punches in a number, and waits for the call to go through.

"I hate it when she does that," Danny exclaims. "Next thing you know, she'll come back saying she's known that witness since primary school and they've been living next door for years."

Wondering what strings Vivian is pulling this time, Sam watches as their colleague paces the short distance from the conference room to the glass panels, obviously deep in conversation. It lasts quite a while, as she must be put on hold. By the time she finishes, she comes back to sit with them, announcing calmly, "It's indeed an old filing system. Hang on−" she goes to her computer, consults a registry Samantha doesn't remember having seen before.

"Luckily for us… never mind, I got it. Number 58302− Jeanette Riley, born Corbett. 235 Oak Lane, Washington DC."

"I won't even ask how you got that information," Jack lets an impressed smile creep up his lips.

Vivian, pleased with herself, smiles at him. "Always call your friends from other departments when it's Christmas time."

"I'll be in DC for two days," Martin says. "I can pay this Jeanette a visit if you want, Jack."

Surprised at this sudden volunteering, Jack agrees. It'll be interesting to learn what Jeanette Riley knows, and if Irina's contacted her. Tonight's meeting, Sam notices, seems to have done him some good. Jack always feels better, as should he, after decisions have been taken.

"By the way, I got a call from the Washington office. Agents Todd and Kaiser will be here on the 26th to handle the other cases. If they need something, don't withhold information."

"Yeah, right," Danny grumbles. "Last time this happened it took us a week to get the archives sorted out, the agents got the whole system wrong. I hope these guys are better."

"You'll be in for a treat, trust me. Viv− good job," Jack congratulates her warmly again. Soon, they're all gathering their stuff, Martin and Vivian lingering longer than usual at their desks to make sure they haven't forgotten anything of importance.

Next comes the moment when they all wish each other a Merry Christmas.

"Say hi to Marcus for us, Viv," Danny requests. "And to Reggie as well."

"I will," their colleague promises. "Danny, Sam, keep an eye on the boss, will you?" she smiles, then goes to hug Jack next. "Merry Christmas, boss," she says fondly.

Jack returns the hug. "You too, Viv. Take care."

An earnest handshake with Martin follows. "Pass on my greetings to the powers in DC, will you?"

"Yeah, Jack. No problem." Martin turns to Sam next, hugs her as well.

Seeing Jack looking at them both, she suddenly regrets that she's not leaving as well. She certainly misses _his_ warm embrace.

_tbc... _


	13. Questions

Thanks a lot to M for the beta and to all of you who're sticking with the story. For those who've reviewed, I'm glad you're enjoying it! Special mention to JoS for taking the time to review every chapter : )

Chapter 13 - Questions  


_December 24th: 7 AM_

December 24th, and there are more front-door bells chiming in the morning breeze than ever. Samantha tries to drive her way through dense morning traffic, annoyed at the other vehicles and amazed at the number of New Yorkers doing some last-minute shopping.

Stuck in traffic, she soon finds herself remembering her Christmas evenings as a kid. She'd never believed in Santa Claus, perhaps because her mother had made no effort to perpetuate the tradition with her. The letter-writing and reindeers had never occupied her fantasies, but there had been great evenings nevertheless, when the house was decorated and she could admire her new ice-skates and compare them to her older sister's. She cherishes these childhood memories− her family felt whole, and back then she had even liked the front-door bells and miniature sleighs on the front porches.

Steering her way into a faster-moving lane, she lets the memories unfold. There are other Christmas nights she'd rather forget. Once, there'd been an argument at home. That was the day she started to think about running away. Later, they were mostly solitary evenings, watching kids playing in the snow through dirty windows, a depressing contemplation. For most, Christmas is the happiest moment of the year, but she's no longer one of them− even if two years ago she'd almost reconsidered. Almost. But then, that had been two years ago.

It had been bitterly cold that night, snow falling softly on the road and coating the city in ice. It had been cold, but she'd been warm because of a combination of things− the slight tremor of anticipation, the feel of warm fingers running over sensitive skin, the hand pressed against her knee. It was the kiss he stole from her lips at a red light, the light pressure of his mouth against hers, the simple warmth the gesture provided. She remembers the look in his eyes− unwavering, shameless as his hand slowly, silently crept up her leg and reached her thigh. It was the way he'd challenged her to say something, to say he should stop, shouldn't do this, because it wasn't right.

That night, they'd parted on a fluid, lingering kiss, whispered Merry Christmas into the chilly December air knowing they'd see each other the next day. There were front-door bells around, and miniature sleighs on front porches, and she'd smiled at them with a child's fascination, and a giddiness she thought she had long lost. His car had felt warm, safe, and she'd felt protected.

That's when the second picture of them together was taken.

She has to suddenly hit the breaks when the car in front of her slows down, and, seeing that traffic is once again not moving, she decides to pull up on the side. If she has to be late, she might as well bring coffee to the office for Danny and Jack− an Americano for the former, a dark espresso for her boss.

Stopping in a busy street, she parks and takes a back alley to a coffee shop. It's not the first time she's done this− there are never any parking spots in the adjacent street, so this is convenient. On her way back with three coffees _to go_, she takes the same abandoned alley, too lost in though to notice the man behind her. Her thoughts, inevitably, are on their current case, and on Irina Connelly. The dark eventuality that they might never catch her looms into her immediate future. If they never do, she's not sure what the consequences will be− for the team, and for Jack.

It's funny, the scenarios you go through when you're walking alone in a snow-covered back alley. First, she imagines a new lead, something substantial enough to find Irina; the woman would take them to Andrew and they'd find him drugged and gagged, but alive. The case would be closed quickly, they'd sit down, discuss it, and file it away once and for all. Scenario number two looks more likely, unfortunately. In this one, Samantha envisions the worse: they hit a stumbling block, Irina Connelly continues to kill and they're forced to give up their investigation. More Marines are abducted and killed, Van Doren receives the pictures, Jack and she both end up fired…

Samantha sighs. It feels like an endless downward spiral. She continues to walk, only distantly aware of the approaching footsteps behind her. Someone's taken that alley as well− and that _someone, _she realizes suddenly, is following her. Quickly switching hands to carry the coffee bag, she lets her fingers close around the handle of her gun, glad that Jack suggested she be on the lookout for an incident like this one.

Feeling the cold metal of her Glock in her palm, and her heart speeding up, she fleetingly wonders if she's being paranoid, but doesn't have much time to prepare herself. She suddenly wheels around, hands shaking and knees weak.

"FBI! Freeze!"

It all goes down too fast for her to think− her stalker breaks into run, she drops her bag to launch after him, her Glock makes contact with the back of his head and all her ears can register is the sickening sound of metal hitting bone.

"Put your hands in the air," she bellows. Suddenly recognizing him, she instructs again, "Your hands− in the air."

Dropping to his knees, Patrick Hardt complies.

A pedestrian enters the alley, then backs out and leaves hurriedly. She wonders how this must look to him− a crazy woman with a gun trained on a male individual who has his hands on his head and keeps pleading in a small voice _please don't shoot me._

She pulls out her phone and calls the cops, making sure her assailant doesn't move a finger. She didn't hit him hard enough to make him unconscious, and the guy certainly looks like he couple take a few hits before dropping dead on the ground− but still, he looks a bit dazed.

She dials Jack's number next.

o o § o o

_December 24th: 10 AM_

Sipping tasteless, lukewarm office coffee− her morning purchases were knocked over− she finds herself lost in the contemplation of the paperclips on her desk. A blue one and a yellow one. Paperclips… they have a history, a history of their own, a history that closely relates to Jack and her and binds them together...

She doesn't hear Danny the first time. He repeats his question, wanting to know if Jack has called the DA yet.

She tries to clear her head, still shell-shocked from the morning's events. Pulling her gun had an impact on more than Patrick Hardt, and the confrontation affected her more than she expected. Perhaps, a small voice in the back of her mindkeeps telling her, perhaps she's not yet ready to face a situation where her own security is on the line.

"Hey, you ok?"

"Why should Jack have called the DA's office?" she evades the question.

Danny moves to stand beside her. "To have Patrick Hardt arrested. That's what we want, right?"

"On what charges would we lock him up? He didn't kill Mathew or Ryan or..."

_Me, _she wants to add.

"The guy's a car thief," Danny reminds her. "He stole the Black Taurus we had to track down, he received illegal payment for it, and we can prove that he has something to do with Irina Connelly's activities. Isn't that enough? What else would we need?"

"Answers."

"I doubt he has them," Danny shakes his head. "All Irina left him was envelopes. He was paid for specific tasks: get a car, assault you. It doesn't mean he even knows who he was really working for. I think he was simply given instructions in exchange for money."

"What if he actually participated in more than that?" Samantha thinks about the pictures that were taken. "Shouldn't we at least find out?"

Danny nods in agreement. "Yeah, you're right. You want to question him?"

Jack is back in that moment. His eyes stop shortly on Samantha, seated at her desk, then on Danny, now standing beside the board. "I'll do it," he says decidedly. "I'm gonna question the SOB myself."

"No you won't."

Jack stills, and Danny opens his mouth in surprise. Sam realizes too late that she's just questioned a decision from her boss− even if Jack doesn't mind, and he probably does, there's still Danny to take into account. Doubts and insecurities can be voiced in private; opposing herself to a decision like this is downright insubordinate. Not sure how to word her next sentence, she hesitates. "Patrick Hardt knows you."

Jack looks at her for a long moment, trying to decode the message she's sending him. But, not needing to ask why Patrick Hardt is familiar with them both, he lets out a defeated sigh. Neither of them can question Patrick, it'd be too dangerous, there would be too many questions, too many people would find out that there's blackmail in the balance. It's obvious that Patrick is the one who took the picture while Irina was in jail− the camera found in his apartment is testament to that.

"Danny, you question him."

Even more surprised, their colleague switches posture to look in turn from her to Jack, observing them, and catching on to the silent exchange.

A chill runs down Samantha's back. They're in an impasse: she can't question Patrick, Jack can't question him either, and it's evident that Danny can't question him if he doesn't have all the facts.

"Danny," Jack says slowly, "There's something else you should know."


	14. Answers

Chapter 14 - Answers

_December 24th: 10:30 AM_

At first sight, Patrick Hardt, long hair and baseball cap, looks like he's grabbed too many donuts on his way to work, put on some weigh after hours spent behind a desk. But the guy, when you take a closer look, is all muscle and no fat, and he stands near the door like a bouncer, or better, like a runner holding a bat and waiting for a good pitch.

"Have a seat."

"I'm good standing, if that's alright with you."

Danny, half a head shorter than Patrick, decides to lean against the opposite wall. "So you're a real hero, aren't you? I can already imagine what the jury will hear. Patrick Hardt, thirty-nine, 5'11 … bank-robber, baseball amateur," Danny looks up dreamily for better effect, "Photographer in his spare time."

Their suspect remains surprisingly calm considering the circumstances. "It was a while ago, but yeah."

"Oh, I forgot," Danny waves the folder he's brought in, and takes out the photographs taken at Patrick's apartment. "You found God and redemption," he makes a dramatic gesture at the image of the Bible Sam and Vivian found. "Didn't community work bring you back down to earth a little?"

Behind Sam, Jack clears his throat. "Isn't he overdoing it a bit?"

"Oh, I don't know," she watches through the one-way glass as Danny questions their Yankee fan. She lowers her voice, even if no one can overhear them. "What did Danny say?"

Jack's eyes drop to the floor for an instant. "He knew."

Chewing on her lower lip, Sam nods uncomfortably. "About us. I know." She lets a second pass. "What did he say about the pictures?"

Still avoiding her eyes, Jack switches posture. "Not much. You know him, he won't say a thing."

Sam had guessed that much, but she wanted his take on it. She hears him pause, then a whisper brushes against her ear, and she stills from the proximity. "I didn't really get a chance to ask if you were okay."

She can see his reflection superimposed with hers in the glass, and the worried look on his face. "I'm perfectly capable of handling today's work load, if that's what you're concerned with."

His reply is soft. "You know it's not."

This time, their eyes meet in the reflection. She holds his gaze and states, "I'm fine. I didn't expect anything to happen on my way to work, but I'm fine. I really am."

Concentrating once more on what's going on inside the interrogation room, they wait confidently for Danny to make the guy talk. Their suspect will come around, it's just a matter of patience.

"I don't know where she is, _I don't know._"

"Start from the beginning," Danny suggests. He has his arms casually crossed over his chest, like he has all the time in the world. "How does a guy like you meet a woman like Sara?" he gives Irina's fake name, the one Patrick knows.

Patrick cracks his fingers, then on his own accord, takes a seat at the steel table. "About fifteen years ago, I was friends with some gang members, and got busted for car theft," he begins. "This woman was sniffing around, wanting some info on another gang from the sixties, the _10 Circles_. She bailed me out of prison once, and traded it for answers: if I heard anything about that 10 Circles group, I had to call her."

"And did you?"

"Na, not at the time," Patrick shrugs. "I told ya, I was twenty or so, and I'd never asked her for anything; I didn't like to depend on anyone."

"But you talked to her again," Danny prods.

"Yeah, about two years ago. I was visiting a buddy of mine in the hole. He had something about the 10 Circles− you know, prison rumors, old stories that emerge thirty or forty years later. I was broke, I remembered this Sara Something would pay, so I went to visit her in jail next."

Danny jots down a few lines on his notepad. "What info did you get?"

"Robert Connelly, the guy Sara was interested in, was a doctor. A couple of Marines killed him for robbery in '64. People remembered about this murder because the cops arrested the wrong guy for it, a black clerk who'd had the misfortune of being in the neighborhood. It turns out Sara knew all this."

"Sara's real name is Irina," Danny tells him, annoyed. "And her last name is Connelly."

At his words, Patrick makes a grimace. "Who is she, the dead doctor's daughter?"

Danny answers casually, "Yeah."

"Ah, damn it, I didn't know that. I guess that's why she knew it all and didn't give me my money for the info. But she was interested in what else I could do; she told me if I needed to scratch a living she could give me a job. I had to buy a camera, follow a couple of people and take incriminating pictures. She gave me the number of a bank account with a few hundred bucks on it. It was two years ago. I abide by the law now, and that's all I have to say."

"Uh-uh," Danny picks up on his last words. "That not all. Tell me about the Taurus."

An unconvincing innocent look replaces Patrick's detachment. "What Taurus?"

"Don't waste my time feigning incomprehension, Patrick. You stole the vehicle from a guy named Clive Kyson, then delivered it to Irina− or Sara Something, if that's what you know her as. Rings a bell?"

At last, what little assurance Patrick seemed to have left vanishes. He looks at his hands, closes his eyes momentarily, then his features tense. "Ok, ok. I, uh, I didn't hear from her in two years. I didn't hear from her until… about ten days ago. There was an envelope in my mail. It said that she needed me to track down a few guys. Marines."

"And she paid you," Danny supposes. "A lot."

"Yeah. She wanted me to find specific men: tall, with brown hair and tattoos. I needed to tell her where they lived, if they went home alone at night, and if it was in their habits to go to a bar or some other place to get a drink. First guy's name was Mathew, I'd heard he wasn't a Marine, but he and a buddy of his were talking. It sounded like he'd be at a bar one night so I told Irina. Next guy was Ryan… Carthy, I think his name was. Marine, 5'9, jogger. He stopped sometimes for coffees at Starbucks."

Danny continues to take notes, knowing this fits with everything they have so far. "What about Andrew Whitewood?"

"Flipper guy. Plays almost every evening. Solitary dude, likes to be alone and chat with the bartender from time to time. I told Irina all that a few days ago."

Sam hears Jack shifting from one foot to another behind her, waiting for Danny to ask the most important questions…

"How were you supposed to contact Irina during the past couple of weeks?"

"I wasn't. You don't contact her; she contacts you. She left me envelopes with money, and in exchange, I was supposed to pass her information."

"How?"

"It's called an e-mail, man."

"Give me the address."

There's a pause. "She doesn't answer mails, but hey, whatever," Patrick grabs Danny's pen and a piece of paper on the table and writes the address down.

"What about the Taurus?" Danny gets back to a still unanswered question.

"Irina sent me another envelope last week. She needed a car. In exchange, she'd pay me, and if I refused, she'd tell my Parole officer that I'd accepted money in exchange for my _services _two years ago, and that I'd tracked down different Marines." His face contorts in anger, and perhaps a twinge of fear. "I'm not stupid. I know they ended up dead. I didn't have a choice: either I did as I was told, or I'd never breathe fresh air ever again."

Capping his pen, Danny looks at Patrick. He's done with the notes, but still has questions to ask. "The pictures you took two years ago− where are the originals?"

Patrick raises his palms. "Beats me. Irina's got them− she paid for the films, too."

Sam exhales. Jack lets out a quiet, _damn it._

"What about the agent you were following this morning? What was the plan?"

"I didn't know she was an agent."

Danny gives him a doubtful glance. "You knew where she worked."

"I thought she was a secretary or something! Look, all I knew was that she was the same girl I took pictures off two years ago. I was just supposed to scare her, man." Outraged, he adds, "That bitch pulled a gun on me." He rubs at the back of his head the sore spot where Sam hit him with the butt of her gun.

"Life sucks, man," Danny says, holding back a smirk. "You sit tight and wait to be shown into your new quarters. Who knows, you might even get a window. It's Christmas."

Well, that's Danny's style, Sam muses: only he would make a prison cell look that good. She watches as Danny exits the interrogation room, his notepad in hand, and makes his way towards them.

"Good job," Jack tells him. Danny nods briefly, then leaves for the tech room, saying he'll try to keep track of the emails that have been exchanged between Irina and Patrick.

Samantha watches Danny round the corner before she turns to Jack. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

"I don't know," he smiles briefly. "Usually the answer's yes." He starts to walk back to his office, and she follows him. There's a strange look in his eyes− hope, she wants to believe. "Irina made sure we couldn't use Patrick Hardt to track her down. She knew he was a weak point, so she only communicated via envelopes and emails. What she doesn't know is that she became vulnerable because Patrick Hardt's emails are anonymous."

Samantha watches as Jack gets around his desk, and takes a seat across from him. She doesn't need him to say more. The plan is obvious: they'll send an email to Irina using the address Patrick gave Danny, and they'll inform her that a young, tattooed Marine is going to have a drink. It's the fastest, easiest, and surest way to lure her out.

"Who do we put undercover?"

Jack quickly considers their options. "Martin could go, but he's in DC and we're running short on time."

"Danny doesn't fit the profile," Sam continues, adding as an afterthought, "I'm not going to suggest you."

For a moment, Jack's features relax into a genuine grin. "If Irina didn't know me so well, you could have."

"Why, because you've got a tattoo?"

As quickly as it appeared, Jack's smile fades. It's obvious he doesn't want _this_ to be known around the office. Not that she could explain how she knows this part of his anatomy anyway. He pushes some files aside, and she tries to hide her discomfort for a second.

"Max," he offers finally, naming one of the tech agents.

She thinks about it, hating the time it would take to explain everything. Seeing another viable solution, she knows she has to let personal feelings aside if it's for the good of the case− lives are at stakes here. "I have someone better. My CSI contact fits the profile too, and he knows the case well."

"He's a Chemist, not a trained agent," Jack says. Clearly he's thinking lab rat rather than trained operative. "I don't think that's a good idea."

It's her turn to avert her eyes. "He was a cop before. He was in the NYPD."

"Oh." As realization sinks in Jack, his mouth tightens imperceptibly. She can't tell if he's angry or surprised or both. His voice looses part of its warmth as he says accusingly, "Keller."

She looks up, finds his eyes and wants to ask, unflinchingly, if it matters to him. But just as quickly, she feels guilty and ashamed to have kept that information from him. "Look, Jack, I−"

"Damn it, you could have told me!"

She's hurt him, she can read that much on his face. But her voice remains calm. "I'm sorry, I didn't think it would make a difference."

_Liar, _the voice in her head tells her. Jack seems to be struggling with something− perhaps the realization that they don't have time right now to antagonize each other.

"I had a right to know. Hell, Sam," he says, his voice low but dangerously so, "You involved _me _when you took this decision. You should have consulted me first. You− you slept with the guy, for Christ's sake!"

"I slept with _you, _Jack, that never stopped us from working together."

The silence that follows is enough to make her want to leave the room. She looks away, and downwards. This didn't come out all right, and she doesn't… she can't figure out how to solve this right now. They're at work and the downward spiral is turning very, very fast.

A knock on Jack's door startles them both and Danny comes in, his eyes on the pair of them. Jack snaps back into professional mode, and Samantha rises.

"Max is tracking the emails. What's the plan?"

Jack quickly explains, his voice neutral. Emotions, for the moment, will be left out of his decisions. Keller can be the undercover agent, and they can only hope Irina takes the bait. Not sure how to interpret the look on Jack's face, Sam keeps quiet.

"She still has Andrew," Danny points out. "Do you think she'll kidnap another Marine at the same time?"

"Maybe not, but we can't let this opportunity pass. In less than twenty-four hours, she'll have figured out we detain her accomplice. After that, it'll be December 25th, and no one at work." Jack pauses to swallow, adding darkly, "And she'll move on."

_tbc... _


	15. Stakeout

Only one chapter this time, but it does have some JS interaction (quite a lot, I might add.) I know it's not Christmas yet, so just pretend : ). And if you're confused about the paperclip reference, see chapter 7!

Chapter 15 - Stakeout

_December 24th: 1:30 PM _

Stakeouts are generally boring and often a waste of time, but this one has high stakes. A couple of minutes ago, Jack got out of the car, but other than that, it's mostly watching Eric as he orders coffee after coffee at Julian's, the small bar they're watching from across the street.

"I bought us lunch."

Sam doesn't even look, shaking her head with a _no thanks, _not really caring at this point that he's spent a dollar ninety-nine on a slice of pizza or God knows what else. He unwraps something that smells of ketchup, mustard and fresh bread. Aside from work, they haven't talked since his office, and it's starting to weigh on both of their shoulders. Being stuck in the same car for hours certainly doesn't help.

"Samantha," Jack starts, but seeing her gazing at Eric makes him pause and reformulate. "Sam," he says. She answers only with silence and he sighs, his face betraying nothing but his voice concerned. "Don't be like that."

"Like what?" she snaps back.

"Distant. Impatient. On edge."

She braces herself for a lecture, but it doesn't come. He simply looks at her with those disarming eyes, silently asking her to talk to him, to let him in. But she refuses to engage in this conversation, choosing instead to focus on the case. "This is pointless," she declares. "Irina won't show up."

"Maybe not," Jack says reasonably. He looks outside the car, his half-eaten hotdog forgotten. "But if we can understand her, we'll catch her."

"Maybe _you _understand her. I don't," she declares brusquely.

He turns to her sharply, his hand on the armrest as he looks at her guardedly. "What's that supposed to imply?"

She's too angry to be anything but direct. It's Jack, he's her boss, and she doesn't care at all. "There are a lot of things you're not talking about. You say you barely talked to Irina back in College, but finding out she was a killer shocked you more than you ever admitted. You say you weren't close to her, but you seem to know a great deal about her personality and what she would or would not do."

"I'm… trying to get a feel for her personality, yes."

For a moment, their eyes meet, his cautious and hers challenging. "I saw the tapes, Jack."

A pause. "And?"

"Were you trying to get a feel for her personality that day in court?" He doesn't answer, so she goes on, "Or a feel for something else?"

He stiffens. Finding his eyes, Sam asks, "How well did you know her, Jack?"

"Not that well."

"But enough to promise her something? Enough to visit her in jail? Come on. Did you sleep with her?"

She can see the hurt look on his face, but she's more upset than she wants to let on. Unfastening her seatbelt, she makes a move to get out of the car, thinking about entering the bar and pretending to be just another patron− at least that way she'd escape his presence.

He reads her intentions. "Let him do his job." When she pulls the handle of the door, he adds, "Sam. Don't do this to yourself."

She leans back into her seat, hating that she can't talk to him and hold him and rest her head on his shoulders like she would've done, once, in a similar situation. After a bad day, they would've… they would've been together. They would've found each other.

"This has nothing to do with Irina, am I right?"

He knows she isn't fine. She hasn't been fine since she pulled that gun on Patrick this morning, took it out of her holster and remembered what it felt like, getting shot.

"Sam, you're not okay," he whispers. "Why don't you go home, get some rest? Tomorrow's Christmas anyway. I'll call you, tell you if Irina came."

She shakes her head. She needs to see this through. But her eyes start to blur, her eyelids flutter as she tries to blink away the tears. "It's falling apart." She speaks it like a confession, her own quiet admittance that everything isn't as fine as she pretends.

"What is?" he asks softly.

"Everything…" She can't look at him anymore. "Us."

She feels his warm hand on her cheek, wiping at her tears with his thumb. "I'm not going anywhere."

Wanting to remember his words, she squeezes his hand faintly, attempting a brave smile. "Jack?"

"Yeah?"

"Pass me that hotdog?"

o o § o o

It's been four hours. Four hours, and the cold outside has become an almost suffocating heat, condensation fogging the windows. Jack's phone rings and he picks up, answering Danny. He decides that they'll wait another couple of hours, and then admit that it was useless to do this, that Irina didn't take the bait. When he hangs up, no more than two minutes go by before it rings again.

He checks the caller's number. "Malone." His face turns pale. "Yes, I understand." Leaning his head back, he shuts his eyes. "Yes," he whispers. "Okay, my team will take care of it. Thank you."

Running a hand over his forehead, he closes his phone. "A couple of kids playing ball found a body in Central Park. It matches Andrew's description."

"Jesus," Sam says in a breath. All this time, they've been here, and Irina was killing Andrew. God, is this ever going to stop?

"I'll, er, I'll tell Eric."

Leaving the car and entering the café, she makes her way toward her friend and colleague, taking in the uniform, the couple of tags around his neck identifying him as Tony Redding, United States Marine. A fake tattoo on his neck makes him resemble the type of Marine Irina is after.

"Bad news?" Eric asks immediately.

"Andrew's dead."

"God," he shakes his head. "God. On December 24th… this just shouldn't happen."

"We're, uh, getting back to the office."

"Okay," he smiles sadly, seeing her tightening the scarf around her neck. "At least I had the coffee to keep warm." He looks at her, then towards the car waiting for her across the street. "See you tonight?"

Sam nods, answering quietly that yes, she'll meet him tonight as planned.

o o § o o

Jeremy, Mathew, Ryan, Andrew. Four out of ten.

The lights are too bright, too intrusive as she watches through the glass Jack's ashen face and Andrew's broken parents. The manual tells you how to handle this, but no amount of training can prepare you well enough. She sees Jack nodding, over and over again, his eyes soft. From behind the door, she can hear his steady, subdued voice as he speaks with a calmness he can't possibly be feeling inside.

She stares at his clasped hands.

It's wrong to stare, her mother would say, but right now she can't help it. She watches them with a fascination she still doesn't understand, even after all those years of working with him and being around him. She used to touch his hands whenever she could; intertwine her fingers with his and gently touch his ring. Perhaps because it bound him to someone else, and represented everything that she couldn't have. Perhaps because it was the one thing that felt real and it wasn't hers to have. He would say nothing and hold her and watch her finger his ring, with that hint of melancholy and sadness every time she did it, because no one else had ever done it and she was pretty sure no one else ever would.

He still has his wedding ring, the ring that binds names and fails to bind hearts, this ring that is both a blessing and a curse to him.

When he comes out of the room, he watches her mutely, inclining his head in a silent question of what she's doing here. But like always, he seems to understand why she couldn't leave, and they walk together to his office, he taking a seat behind his desk, and she sinking in the chair across from it.

o o § o o

About an hour later, they've both moved to the couch, where it's more comfortable. They keep accumulating empty coffee cups, but neither of them cares. They've been comparing notes once more on the case, trying to tidy up everything before closing up the office for thirty-six hours. There's some late paperwork to get done, reports to hand to Van Doren, timelines to fill in, and other little details that have to be added.

She watches Jack from time to time, knowing he's feeling as low as she is right now. This enters the _bad cases _category and might make top of the list. Personal issues, few leads, dozens of people to reassure and a lot of pressure...

"Any idea what Irina's next move will be?"

"She'll contact me," Jack supposes. He seems to have given this a lot of thinking− so has she. "It's bound to happen. She's being tracked all over the city, her face will soon be in every newspaper. Her accomplice can no longer help her, and I don't think she has a lot of aces left up her sleeve. Except maybe…"

"Blackmail?" Sam finishes the thought. "What do you think she'll want this time?"

"I don't know," Jack says tiredly. He has dark bags under his eyes, the result of too many sleepless nights. "She'll use the pictures," he guesses. "It's going to happen sooner or later. But wait until Van Doren sees them," he says somberly. "Then we'll know for sure what hell feels like."

Concerned, Samantha says nothing. Jack shrugs, and goes on, "She's already breathing down my neck for results. Hopefully Christmas will do her some good. DC's putting on some pressure, but Paula's still polite…" he smirks, and adds humorlessly, "For the moment."

She moves the pile of files off her lap and hands him her daily report. He takes it and leaves it on top of Danny's, then turns to her as she grabs another folder and begins to read.

"Don't you have plans for the night?"

It's barely six, but everyone else is gone. She thinks of how she accepted to meet with Eric. "Yes. I guess I'm going to call it a night." She suppressed a yawn, shifts on the couch beside Jack, growing aware of the nearness of him. Perhaps sitting on the couch wasn't _such _a good idea. Tilting her head aside, she asks, "What about you?"

"I told Maria I'd be home early."

She catches the guilt in his eyes before he looks away.

"It's okay, Jack," she feels she needs to tell him. He's trying to make it work with Maria, and she can't… she can't blame him for that. Not when she knows what he's been through. She moves her hand to his arm, applying a light, reassuring pressure. "It's good that you're going to be with your family."

"I always was with my family on Christmas Eve."

Stunned that he would mention this, she can only close her eyes, unhappy with where her thoughts are going, but incapable of ignoring the bittersweet memories his words have elicited. Two years ago, the world was different. Two years ago he'd gone home to Maria knowing that the next day−

She can no longer avoid his steady gaze. "That was a long time ago," she whispers. Her hand moves down his arm until it brushes against his wrist. "We were both…" she casts around for the right words.

"Young and innocent?" he supplies with a short laugh.

She doubts that was ever the case. But the look in his eyes, the feel of her hand against his make her unable to continue. They're close, perhaps a bit too close, their heads slowly closing the distance, their faces drawn to each other, like magnets.

He suddenly releases a sigh, and she feels his breath on her lips before he moves away and stands up. Her eyes follow him as he goes around his desk, opening a drawer. He comes back to her holding a wrapped package and she can't, for a minute, fathom what to say. Even when they were together, they'd agreed not to give each other anything, to simply enjoy the mere fact that they were together, the gift of each other's presence.

"Merry Christmas, Sam."

She looks at him uncertainly, indecision making her hesitate. Then she rises to stand in front of him. "What…?"

"Not a gift," he tells her quickly, still holding the package. "Well… not really."

She contemplates the box, debating whether to open it, or whether to wait, wondering if she should keep it for later, wondering if she should open it at all.

Curiosity gets the better of her− that, and the sudden need to know, to reveal what's inside, to tear out the wrapping and find out what it is that's so important for him to give her− and then a laugh bubbles from her lips as they stand face to face, amused and unsure, not knowing what to do.

Suddenly, she crosses the distance between them, and he wraps her in a hug as she clings to his chest and back and jacket, and he holds her against him, arms tightly encircling her body. The box of paperclips falls on his desk, and they aren't just paperclips, Samantha, they're _colored _paperclips and it makes all the difference. And he's right, it makes all the difference, because this 2.49$ gift means everything, everything they ever shared between them.

He finally lets go of her, keeping his face buried in her neck for just another second. When she pulls back as well, his eyes are shining with emotion.

"Merry Christmas, Jack."

_tbc... _


	16. Christmas Eve

A short chapter, so I hope it doesn't disappoint. Of course, I couldn't just overlook the Eric date...  
More coming soon : )

Chapter 16 – Christmas Eve

_December 24th: 11 PM _

"To Christmas," Eric raises his glass in a toast to their messed up lives, wryly looking down at his glass of Coke. His tailored jacket rests on the stool beside him, as neither he nor Sam had the courage to make it to the tuxedo dinner-party. She has jeans on, because she had enough time to change before she took the subway downtown.

There's something hollow in his voice that pangs at her heart when she remembers the jovial individual he used to be. She sips some of her lemonade− funny, how much lemonade she's drunk in the past few days. They're both sober, but anyone looking at them might think quite the contrary, seeing as they look so out of place here tonight.

"It, uh… it belonged to Alex."

Biting her lip, she has to make a conscious effort not to turn away. He's holding a coaster in his palm, similar to the ones under their glasses.

"He collected coasters," he goes on, unnecessarily. "This was the last one he'd found. It was in his pocket the day he… the day he stopped collecting them."

She doesn't know what to tell Eric. Words aren't enough and she can't begin to describe what she's feeling and there's no way he can be alright this evening. On Christmas you tend to dwell on what you've lost and she's heard him concerned and frustrated before, but she's never heard him so sad and now her eyes are starting to burn.

"You know it's funny… we actually spent last Christmas together. We'd had this weird case and we had this cops party and then we crashed the FDNY's Christmas party 'cause Alex knew a guy from there and…"

His voice trails off into silence and they both look outside, through the window of the bar. With an effort, it seems, he steadies his voice enough to speak. "So you, uh, got nothing on Irina Connelly?"

Glad to talk about something she can easily discuss, she answers, "No. I'm sorry you had to participate in a failed operation."

"I was glad to help. The sooner that one goes back to jail the better."

"Yeah." She points at a couple of people walking down the street. As always on Christmas, there are kids playing in the snow. "Hey, Eric? You forgot the hat."

He watches the red hats for a moment, exhaling quietly when one of the kids begins to laugh, so innocently and lightheartedly.

A wave of nostalgia hits her. "I wish I could be like them."

Eric observes the scene outside for a moment, and then suddenly turns to her. "Come on."

"What?" she laughs.

"Come on," he repeats, standing. Wrapping a friendly arm around her shoulders, he drags her away from the counter and their glasses, leads her to the door and out into the bitter cold of December.

"Now what?" Once more, she feels compelled to laugh, if only to expel the freezing air from her lungs. The kids with the hats are walking away, but Eric runs after them, tucks a hand inside his pocket and retrieves some cash. By the time he comes back to her, holding an old, worn Christmas hat he's probably paid an insanely high price, she feels the need to giggle again.

"Merry Christmas, Samantha," he gives her a mindless kiss on the cheek. "Only one thing left…" As she raises questioning eyes to him, he sends a teasing glare her way. "A snow fight."

"No way," she shakes her head vigorously, but on impulse, she suddenly bends down, packs some snow between her palms, and shoves it in his direction. The handful of snow smashes on his arm and less than a second later, something hard and cold hits her leg.

Snowballs start to fly in every direction. This is good, she thinks. Tonight… playing like kids in the snow. Danny would be glad to know she's having fun and Jack would−

She chases the thought away, puts her heart and soul into the fight, not stopping until both Eric and she are covered in white powder from head to toe and they both look like snowmen with human features. They've never done this before, righted themselves this way, with snowballs and fits of laughter; and they've never thrown snowballs with such force, like it was either that or the end of the world.

"Truce, Samantha," Eric shouts at her as yet another ball of ice hits him in the stomach. He topples backward, making dramatic arm gestures in the air before he crashes into the soft layer of snow like a fallen hero.

She moves over to him, ignoring the smirk of one of the guys from the bar as he passes them on the sidewalk.

"You okay?" she breathes into the freezing air, dropping on her knees beside Eric.

He chuckles, catching his breath. "Cold. I can't feel my feet anymore." Taking her hand in his, he manages to get them both back on their feet. They stand face to face for a moment, streetlights casting a yellow hue on the street corner, and then he wraps his arms around her, seeking some warmth.

She starts to pull away, but then reconsiders because she's shivering as well. The smile has slid off his face, and he's still looking at her with that aching desperation. He's kept his arms around her, one around her shoulders and the other laced around her waist.

After a moment's hesitation, his lips hover close to her mouth, nose brushing against hers.

"Eric−" she warns suddenly, for he's leaned forward to kiss her.

He hesitates, dropping his hand from her waist. "Sorry."

Indecisive, she thinks of the reason why she's refusing this, but somehow every reason brings her back to the _real _reason she's here tonight. She thinks about Jack, sees Jack, remembers Jack and the feel of his hair, his lips, his arms holding her against him in the chilly winter air, the chilly mornings that felt sunny and warm with him. She can't be with Jack, so it's Eric or no one. Her emotions have been a mess for a while but tonight it's worse than ever, because it's Christmas, she's lonely, and she doesn't want to be with the one who so desperately wants to be with her.

"I− I'd rather we stayed friends, ok?"

"Yeah, yeah. I− I don't know what I was thinking. I'll just, uh, get back inside the bar, get my jacket."

It's slightly bitter and she feels pained for him, but she can't do this with Eric. Not… not tonight.

"I'll see you," she says quietly.

He nods and leaves, his departure precipitated by her eyes on his back. She starts to walk back to the subway station, the way she came, knowing that at this hour, she'll be lucky if she meets even one other person. Her shoes click on the ground, her jeans and coat drenched in melting snow. Somewhere between the buildings of the city, she knows, there's Vivian cooking and Marcus watching their son Reggie with a loving smile. There's Danny enjoying the night with his friends, and Martin's in DC, having a family party in that big colonial house his family possesses.

There's Jack, standing in his living room beside the window, watching Hanna and Kate restlessly trying to figure out what presents they'll have this year.

_Daddy, have you seen the snow? Could we go outside and build a snowman?_

At midnight, you hear voices. And the voices follow you down the stairs that lead to the abandoned subway rails, talk to you in the dark and whisper to you about love. At midnight on Christmas Eve, fathers make their kids' wishes come true and take them outside, because it's December 24th and on December 24th, kids want to build snowmen. And have giant snowball fights.

So she imagines him, bare hands in the snow, building whatever his daughters ask, out at midnight under the moonlight.

_Dad? It's cold, we want to go inside._

He remains immobile for a long moment, watching as the snow slowly freezes his fingers. He blows hot breath into dry air and blinks, dazzled by the snow and the cold and the solitary tear clinging to one of his eyelashes.

_Go inside, I'll be there in a minute_.

But a minute passes, then two, and he doesn't follow. He bends down and makes snowballs. A snowball for his mother, who loved the winter because she could watch her son grow up and play outside when everything was white. He makes a snowball for his father, whose presence he's always missed, even if he never told him. He makes snowballs for his daughters. One for Hanna and one for Kate, one for father Christmas; balls of light that will shine forever at night. He bends down again, gathers some snow. He stares at it, a twisted smile on his features.

He can't make a snowball for Sam. For her, he has a smile. He lets the snow fall from his trembling hands, the icy flakes swirling in the wind. They look like stars in the morning; stars he's lit for her. The scene is fragile, the crystallized ice as white and pure as the look in his gaze.

She can picture it all in her mind's eyes, a beautiful tableau with Jack in the middle, a sad masterpiece that has been sketched by them both in the time they've spent in each other's company; the result of what they've shared, won, and lost together.

She grabs the metal bar in the center of the subway train, feeling salty tears on her cheeks.

At midnight on Christmas Eve, she hears his voice.


	17. Remembrance

This is the last in the series of Christmas chapters, and then the team's back to work like usual.

Chapter 17 - Remembrance 

_December 25__th__ - Late morning_

The phone wakes her up. She remembers waking up around six, then falling back asleep, surrendering to her body's need for rest. It feels like a lifetime since she's overslept, but judging by the digits on her clock, she has.

Appallingly.

"Samantha? Merry Christmas."

It's Danny's voice, light and cheerful. She quickly rolls out of bed and glances out the window. The city is already awake: bustling streets, passers-by en route to their respective destinations, and more snow, if possible, than there was at midnight.

"Happy New Year as well," Danny jokes, and she can just about imagine the smile on his face. "That way if I forget when the time comes you won't be on my case for the next six months."

She grins despite herself, feeling rested and a lot better after a good night's sleep than she did the previous evening. Holding the phone close to her ear, she makes her way back around her bed, taking a seat on the edge of the mattress. She and Danny exchange a few more words before he asks, "You said you were spending Christmas with someone; you're not alone, are you?"

She looks around at her empty apartment. It's functional, but that's about it. There are some files on her desk that she didn't have time to sort out; mostly copies of the ones Jack had given her to read. From the wooden surface, a face is grinning at her− a tall young man with short brown hair, a scar on his lower jaw, and an innocence that will forever stay in the photograph.

"I'm not alone, Danny." She reads the name scribbled underneath the picture. Jeremy Holloway.

"I'm not alone," she repeats, and hangs up a few moments later. She's not supposed to work today, she's supposed to be enjoying Christmas. Danny is right; she needs to find a meaning to this day− company, or something to occupy her mind. Her apartment is too silent, too lonely, too empty. Emptiness, she figures, is like blood: it just won't go away.

And suddenly, she knows where to go.

o o § o o

The inscription on his grave is simple.

_In loving memory of Jeremy Holloway. December 10__th__, 1966 - June 22__nd__, 1987._

She never met him, never searched for him, never talked to his parents and asked what games he liked to play or whether he ate bacon and eggs for breakfast. But being here is important, she figures, if only to tell him that the world hasn't forgotten him.

Her phone rings, but she doesn't pick up. It feels wrong to take out her phone in a cemetery; to go back to reality when there are so many around her who no longer can. Only distantly does she wonder who it could be. Eric, perhaps, wanting to apologize for the previous evening. Martin, or Viv, or maybe even her mom, wishing her a Merry Christmas. Or maybe it's Jack, asking if she's home, if she's all right, because he knows Irina's still out there, and maybe he wanted to check on her, and maybe he cares more than he's supposed to and he doesn't know what to do about it any more than she does.

The sound finally stops, and she rubs her hands together. It's cold here, the flowers frozen and broken under the weight of the ice. From this row of headstones, the only thing she's aware of is the snow: white and untouched, falling softly and covering everything until even the inscriptions become difficult to read.

_In loving memory…_

Her phone, again. Automatically, she checks the number− Jack.

Her fingers hesitate, hover above the button it would be so easy to press, just to hear him, hear his voice, hear the affection in his tone and let it fill the miles of snow that separate them. But once again, she feels compelled to respect the silence and peacefulness of the world around her, of the long alleys with the names and cards, the vases. She's alone, she feels lonely. She doesn't believe anyone who says they've never felt that way. She didn't know what loneliness really was until she found out what it felt like to be with someone who could make the silence go away without speaking; who could fill a room, a vacant space with his presence.

There are many sorts of silence, she knows. Silences filled with joy. Silences filled with pain. She remembers silences filled with awkwardness, and others filled with tears, and yet others that are synonymous with a calm, warm moment. Silence when she was grounded in her room as a child, because she wouldn't do her homework. Silence at Quantico, when they were training to infiltrate a house. Silence in her apartment, when they were on her couch, enjoying a moment after a long day. Silence again in his car as they sat late one late night, wondering how it could ever have gone so wrong; silence as she stepped out and silence long after that; a numb silence.

Silence now.

She finally resigns herself to leave, to go back to the city. But before she goes, she kneels in front of Jeremy's grave, and something on the ground catches her attention. Then her lips stretch into a twisted smile, while her eyes fill with tears, the paperclip weightless in her hand but crushing her heart.

She never knew Jack came here, until now.

The sharp trilling of her cell phone startles her and this time, she knows he'll leave her a message._ Sam, where are you? Samantha, pick up. _She can hear his voice in her ears, concerned and authoritative and he'd use her full name and she'd know it was serious, and Samantha,_ damn it, just pick up your phon_e.

She leaves Jeremy's resting place with the paperclip and makes her way back to her car, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. Her apartment, she fears, will be every bit as lifeless as when she left it. Maybe she should have said yes to Eric. She would have had the company, and the physical intimacy, if not the mental link that had once joined her to Jack. She would have had the contact of another body, another man, another person unwilling to be alone on such a day.

When she parks in front of her building, she doesn't notice the black car that has been in front of her apartment for the past half hour. She doesn't notice the driver either, nor the lowered window, or the plates she would've recognized.

"Samantha?"

Startled, she jumps as she passes the car.

"Jesus, Jack, you scared me."

"Sorry," she hears him say. He gestures for her to come inside, and she does, sliding effortlessly into the passenger's seat and quickly closing the door.

"Jack… Jack, it's December 25th…" A bitter laugh rises from her throat. She visits the dead at Christmas and Jack, who should be home with his girls eating Christmas turkey, visits her. What a messed up world.

He looks away, and it's obvious that he doesn't want to be reminded of the date. Clearing his throat, he keeps his eyes on the wheel. "Someone else went missing."

"On Christmas day? It's… God, that sucks."

"Yeah. A Marine was abducted. NYPD says he was with his girlfriend walking; Irina hit Laura first− that's the girlfriend− and abducted him. We're headed to St Vincent's hospital. Danny's on his way too. I tried to call you," he says, somewhat accusingly. When she remains strangely quiet, he looks at her, his mind only now registering that something about her is off.

"Samantha," Jack says quietly. "What's wrong?"

So she tells him, tells him how she broke a rule today, how she went to see Jeremy Holloway even if you're not supposed to get close to the victims; how she stared at the inscription on his grave for a long moment, wondering if he was alone; wondering if he was cold.

Instead of speaking, he keeps looking at her, a hand weakly resting on the wheel because he wants to touch her and comfort her, but reason tells him that it's not a good idea.

"I didn't know you'd been there− I couldn't…" she extends her hand, palm open, the black paperclip resting weakly between her fingers.

He finally touches her arm, and squeezes her hand reassuringly. "It's okay," he whispers. It really soothes her, the simple contact of his hand, and all she can think of is hold me, Jack, hold me like you've never held anyone; hold me like you've never been hurt. You never go back to see the families and you never visit their graves and she knows she's broken rules today, and now she's with him and she thinks, oh what she wouldn't give to break one more.

She suddenly feels his fingers on her cheek, against her jaw, and there's a sensuality in the gesture that makes her forget how to breathe. She remembers a night in the same car, with the same tension, the same indecision. And just like that night so long ago, he's more than a thought or a memory or that piece of dream you can never have. He's here. Jack. Touching her.

Working it out with Maria, but touching her.

She closes the distance, fills the air between them. His lips brush against hers, soft and comforting and he feels like the first time they were this close, when thoughts of rules and commitment were sent to oblivion. He feels like their parting kiss, before his hand found her cheek and she knew it meant goodbye.

His lips are warm as he kisses her tenderly, slowly, a kiss meant to soothe and maybe reawaken feelings that have long ago been repressed.

"Sam," he breathes, pulling away because his phone has started to ring. Reluctantly removing his hand from her neck, he draws the phone to his ear.

"Yes, Danny… we're on our way." He looks around the car, at her, spares a glance outside the window and speaks into the phone again, saying that yes, he picked up Samantha, and no, it's not necessary to call Martin. Yes, coffee would be nice as long as Danny isn't the one making it.

Jack's lips quirk upwards before he closes his phone, and something passes on his features that she can't quite place; guilt or regret, a sad smile.

She tilts her chin. "What's his name?"

"Alexei Ivanovitch."

"Russian?"

He nods. "Russian father. Danny said he has some background information already. Apparently he grew up in Queens, but his father still has family in Russia." Jack starts the car. He adds wearily, "If this was any other case, we'd dig deeper on the girlfriend, but she was just a witness…"

"How is she?"

"Shaken, but no serious injuries. Just a nasty bump on the forehead; apparently Irina sent her flying into a streetlamp before she managed to grab Alexei. She must have drugged him first."

They're back to work; back with a case and someone to interrogate and she hopes Laura can give them the information they need. Noticing Jack's tight features, Sam asks cautiously, "How's Maria taking the fact that you're back to work today?"

"Bad." He winces, and tells her, "We fought. She told me if I couldn't even be there for Christmas then I obviously wasn't cut out to be Hanna and Kate's father."

Shocked, Sam searches for the right words. That Maria still understands nothing of Jack's daily life will never stop bewildering her. "That's pretty harsh."

"No more than usual," he says bitterly. "At least the girls were in their rooms, trying to find some batteries for Kate's new toys. They didn't hear the argument." Glancing briefly at Sam, he then asks, "How was your dinner?"

Caught of guard, she finds herself wondering why she told Jack about it in the first place. "It was… interesting."

He doesn't look pleased with her answer.

o o § o o

_December 25__th__ - 2:35 PM_

"Has she said anything?"

Danny, somehow managing to hold three coffees with two hands, shakes his head. "I don't know, I just got here."

Sam peers through the glass and into the hospital room where a young woman is seated on a chair, a large Band-Aid across her forehead. "How old is she?"

"Twenty," comes Jack's sigh from behind her. She shifts around to be able to see him, and accepts the cup of coffee Danny's offering her. It's hot and she welcomes the burning feeling, without hesitating like Jack or wondering if this coffee will taste good or be bland like all the cups you buy from vending machines.

"You two go inside," Jack tells them, "I'll talk to the police officer who was on the scene, see what he can tell me."

Entering the room behind Danny, she draws out a pen and tries to ignore the hospital smell− an unpleasant mixture of bleach and antiseptic.

Laura, nervous and still in shock, rises as soon as they walk in. "Are you here about that killer?" she asks agitatedly. "God, she took him. She just did. I mean, we were playing bowling with friends and celebrating Christmas and having a great time and then Alex wasn't feeling very well so we said we'd get some fresh air and then, God, that lady hit me and Jesus, she took Alex."

Blinking at the rapid speech, Danny motions for Laura to sit back down.

"But you gotta find that crazy lady!"

"We're hoping you can help us with it." Sam sips some more coffee. The steam from her cup rises while they interrogate Laura. It captivates her, how it disappears into nothingness, and soon she finds herself lost in thought. Where's Irina now? En route to her secret headquarters? Already in Central Park? Wasn't she aware that Alexei wouldn't be going home alone at night? She must have found out, Sam reflects, that her accomplice is now behind bars− hence the change in operating methods.

"Does Alexei have a tattoo?"

Shaken out of her reflection, Samantha concentrates again on the present scene.

"Yeah, on his neck, why?"

"What did you see him drink?"

Laura shrugs. "I'm not sure. We were having fun, there were a lot of people."

Danny takes out Irina's picture. "Do you recognize her? Take your time."

"Uh…" Laura concentrates. "Maybe. I think I saw her at the bowling, she might've been at the bar or something."

Samantha nods, and gives a disappointed look at her empty cup.

o o § o o

It's five in the evening by the time Jack drops her back at her apartment. Laura and other bowlers gave them some precious information that they've spent the afternoon verifying with Danny: Irina dyed her hair black, she had a cell phone, and Laura remembered a white Sedan driving away− a sign that Connelly has changed cars. Slowly but surely, they're gaining information, and closing in on her.

"Samantha?" Jack says hesitantly, before she steps out of the car. "I'm sorry."

She turns to him. "What?"

His fingers tighten on the steering wheel. "I'm sorry I kissed you."

Softly, she answers, "I'm not."

"You can't−" He stops, shuts his eyes briefly. Turning slightly, his right shoulder pressing against his seat, he meets her eyes. "You know we can't…"

"I'm not asking for anything, Jack. Just…" Frustrated, it's her turn to look at him, at a loss. She doesn't feel like playing games tonight, especially not with him. Honesty, she decides, is the best thing she can offer him. "I was with Eric yesterday evening."

A muscle in his jaw twitches. "You don't have to tell me." His voice is low, dangerously calm. Hurt.

She ignores it. "I almost made a very big mistake."

Dryly, he comments, "I'm glad you came to your senses."

For a few seconds, she says nothing. The lines are more blurred than ever; unclear. She sincerely doesn't know what to expect, what to tell him. "Jack… I don't know what to do… Ever since you−"

She breaks off, suddenly realizing what she was going to say. Remembering why they're in this mess now. Remembering everything: his good-bye on the bench, his voice in the night, the warmth of a hand on her cheek. Table of Contents, cold and so suddenly hot, Barry Mashburn, lost and desperate, the hospital, white and foreign… just like the one they visited today. Just like every hospital she finds herself in when her thoughts drift back to that day, to that night and the morning after, to the dull sound his footsteps made on the white floor between the white door and the white sheets that covered her white bandage. She remembers nurses and doctors and familiar faces passing by, stopping, apologizing, never telling her what she needed to hear. Vivian spoke gently, of Ted and Fran and those who went home. Martin squeezed her hand shyly, wanted to know if it hurt, if he could do anything. True to himself, Danny joked, in a light tone that eased her into a restless sleep.

Jack didn't speak.

He simply looked at her from across the unfamiliar hospital room, his wedding ring more noticeable than ever before. She looked at him in return, and they both knew.

They just knew.

She'll still be bleeding in that bookstore every second of her life; he'll still be looking through the window across the street, watching blood seep through her clothes, through the red carpet underneath. Knowing if he didn't save her, if he sat in that chair as protocol dictated him to do, it wasn't his career he'd lose, it'd be her. This day, this night will always stand between them. How he messed up, even as he held her. How he chose his family, even as he saved her.

"I wanted to tell you so many things that night, but I…"

His voice trails off, his eyes fall once more to the metal band around his finger.

Her mouth feels dry, the air suddenly seems so thin. She watches emotions cross his face as they find themselves addressing an issue they've never addressed directly. He came. He saw her. He ended it that night, or the day after− it doesn't really matter− but at least he came.

"Jack," she says softly. "You put your family first. I understand that."

He waits a moment. "When I walked into the bookstore, I put you first. I shouldn't have."

She turns away. He hastens to correct himself. "Samantha, what I mean is that I shouldn't have put you before my family. But I did. Because you… you just mean more to me than anyone will ever know."

She had envisioned this conversation a thousand times in the past, thought about what she would tell him, what he'd tell her− had always wanted to believe they would find a way to solve this. But now she wants to open the door, wants to leave the car, leave him and forget his confession and the implications of what he's telling her. It's easier to pretend everything's fine, easier to run. Easier to believe that they have to deal with Irina Connelly before they deal with each other.

"I don't want to talk about it right now. Let's close the case first, okay?"

"Sam−"

"Jack, just… just let me go home."

He nods in defeat, his eyes lingering on her departing silhouette, and she can almost feel his stare burning a hole through her back.


	18. Apologies

A/N: I'm still keeping my chapters approximately the same length, hence the double update. I really want to thank everyone for keeping up with this story, and for the wonderful reviews. Also, Mariel, thank you for taking the time to go over this and for telling me that these two chapters are good, although hey're far from being my favorites. And finally, a Happy New Year to all of you!

Chapter 18 - Apologies

_December 26th_

As the city awakes to a dense, chilly fog, Samantha sits back in her chair, deep in thought. The board hasn't been wiped for a while, and the black lines now seem permanently engraved on the plastic surface. As she scans the information and mentally compares it to her notes, she can see the scene in her mind's eyes.

_3 PM. The door opened to let Irina Connelly in, and she entered the bowling alley to the sound of laughter, loud music and pins being knocked down. She walked to the bar and ordered a drink, a smile creeping up her lips when she saw the young man she was looking for releasing a fluorescent green ball. No more than ten minutes later, Alexei and his friends headed for the bar, and in between the moment he took a seat and the moment he finished his drink, she surreptitiously mixed in some Nitrazepam._

Praying for intuition, but knowing most of the entries are useless, Samantha goes through them anyway. It's obvious that Alexei must have felt sick shortly after he ingested the drug, and that's when Irina had followed him outside.

_3:47 – Irina drives away from the scene (two eye-witnesses). Unknown route taken._

As she processes the information, the morning news plays in background on one of the office's monitors. Something about football, a shooting on the other side of the city, flashes of world politics, business, Wallstreet−

Her head shoots up when the 'Christmas Killer' is mentioned. The story is what can be expected when reporters fish around crime scenes and FBI buildings: some quick camera shots of Central Park, Irina's face on screen a few times, sketchy descriptions of her past. At last, a few passers-by are randomly interviewed, just so the whole city knows that the lady with the red purse isn't sure if this woman is such a serious threat, and that the old bus driver has heard all kind of rumors−

"Watching the latest Christmas show?"

Her eyes leave the monitor. "Nah, just CSI."

Vivian comes forward, looking quite rested after her two-day break. Her expression turns serious. "I heard some of it on the radio."

"Which part?"

"The part where they start asking people what they think about the crazy killer on the loose. Half of the city is afraid to walk outside and the other believes Connelly's some kind of Christmas hoax."

"They're just afraid."

"You can't blame them," comes a familiar voice from behind.

Vivian and Sam both wheel around to find Martin standing beside his desk. He drops his keys and removes his scarf and gloves, then proceeds to take off his coat.

"Welcome back," Vivian greets warmly. "How're things in DC?"

"Same as usual." Martin deposits a file on his desk and hands out fresh muffins. "All talk and no real action, save for glasses of champagne being passed around."

"It must have been awful," Jack commiserates as he enters the bullpen. Leaning both elbows on top of Vivian's cubicle, but avoiding Sam's gaze, he declares, "Get a hold of Danny, and then you can tell us about it."

Right on cue, their colleague shows up. He shakes Martin's hand. "How was DC?"

"Lots of champagne," Sam answers casually, earning herself a grin from Viv and a slight roll of the eyes from Martin.

"Let's get to work," Jack is prompt to announce. "Danny, quick summary please. Bring Martin and Viv up-to-date."

"Uh, ok." The latter grabs a chair and explains, "We have an APB on the White Sedan Irina's driving. Laura's out of the hospital, she'll be fine, but we have to find Alexei, and the sooner the better." Quickly glancing outside the window, Danny folds his hands. "If he's outside, he'll freeze to death." Not wanting to think about the outcome, however, he hastens to add, "Other than that, Irina apparently dyed her hair black. None of the hairstylists in a twenty miles radius remember her, so chances are she did it herself."

He falls silent, and Martin takes over. "I paid a visit to Jeanette Riley in Washington. She was indeed the witness we were looking for, but Irina beat us to her. She was polite, asked a lot questions, wanted a lot of details. Jeanette told her everything she wanted to know− she's an old lady, was glad to be able to chat, even though, I quote, 'The topic of conversation isn't one I often like to evoke.'"

No kidding, Sam thinks. Relieving a murder after forty years must be quite unsettling.

"She was kind enough to go over the facts again," Martin takes out his notepad. "This case screwed up her life. She was twenty-seven in 1964. It was a dark street, she was doing some babysitting and was getting home late. She witnessed the murder of Irina's father from beginning to end, and was the one who identified the men as Marines."

"Why weren't they apprehended?"

"The county cops had a beef against the local clerk, who was black. Jeanette was young and scared and the uniforms happy to forget about her testimony− especially when the white population backed up the accusations against the clerk. You have to take the social context into account."

"That's a nice story, but it won't help us catch Irina…"

"The story won't," Martin pauses. "But this might," he opens his notepad and hands it to Jack, who silently observes the page.

"Irina left Jeanette Riley this phone number in case she remembered anything else."

"You're_ joking,_" Danny exclaims.

"Tech guys are tracking it down as we speak."

Jack hands back the notepad to Martin, and allows himself a smile. "Let's hope we get lucky."

o o § o o

"Holy."

"What?"

"That's her name."

Confused, Sam waits for Martin to continue.

"You should've seen Danny's face. And the grin on mine."

"Martin, what are you talking about?"

"Ok, you know how we're no longer working on the regular cases?"

"Yeah."

"And how agents Tass and Kaiser from the Washington Missing Persons Unit are supposed to replace us temporarily? Danny walked on them right after the team briefing, ready to pick up a fight and show them how guys do things here. But guess what, agent Kaiser _isn't_a guy."

"Ah. Haha. And where are they now?"

"Upstairs, getting the standard welcome-to hell and don't-screw-up-on-my-watch Van Doren briefing. You got anything?"

"I'm working on it. Irina has done a poor job covering her tracks lately. I just got a call, NYPD just found the Black Taurus Patrick Hardt stole for her before she opted for the Sedan. It was abandoned near the Hudson. A preliminary report indicates that her prints are all over it, as well as Mathew McNeil's, Ryan Carthy's and Andrew Whitewood's. They're doing a DNA analysis on the fibers pulled from the seats."

This will add to the list of evidence that will incriminate Irina in court− it doesn't, however, help them find her. Next, Samantha helps Martin calling gas stations. It's faster than visiting them one by one, though after forty-five minutes of waiting, sighing, ticking off a list, waiting again, and apologizing for disrupting, they're not one step closer to finding when and where Irina last got a full tank of gas on the Sedan she's driving. Martin gives up, saying he'll go and see whether they succeeded in locating Irina's cell phone.

Samantha tries to clear her thoughts. Yet another hour lost. She's starting to wonder when they'll have to let go and admit that there's nothing else they can do. It's frustrating to be always one step behind, one hour late. They found the Taurus, but only after Irina started driving a Sedan. They know where she bought Nitrazepam, but they also know she won't buy drugs again. They know Irina's past moves, but don't know where she'll go next− or where she's detaining Alexei.

"She didn't dye her hair," Danny enters the bullpen, a satisfied expression on his face. He shakes off snow from his coat, and paces around to get warmer.

Samantha, without looking up, continues to go through the report in front of her. "She didn't?"

"No. She was wearing a wig."

"How would you know?"

Danny waves a tape in front of her. "The fast food around the corner has security cameras. You can clearly see Irina driving away right after she threw Alexei in the Sedan. One second she has long black hair, the next second, curly brown hair."

"Nice catch. Anyone found the wig? She might have thrown it out the window."

"We didn't find anything," Danny shakes his head, then leans sideways to her, a playful smile on his lips. "But if we do, I'll keep it and you can have it for the next masquerade ball so people don't know you're blonde."

"Speaking of blondes," Sam retorts in a flash, "I hear you met one this morning. Holy, is that right?"

Danny groans while she rises in search of a file she presumes is on Vivian's desk. Well-aware that they have no time to lose, however, she quickly skips back to work. "Nothing on the gas stations. It's like Irina's driving on an empty tank…"

"She couldn't go very far if that were the case. Perhaps she traded cars again."

"Or she's branched out into bribery. You can buy silence for a few bucks nowadays," Sam moves back to her desk with the needed file. "What about you? You told Jack about the wig?"

The smile fades off Danny's face, replaced by uneasiness. "Not yet."

"Why not?"

He probes the inside of his jaw with his tongue, his voice dropping as he tells her, "His wife's here."

She stops dead in her tracks, hesitates, and looks up. "What?"

"Maria. She's here now, talking with him in his office."

Her mind immediately assumes the worse; that something has happened to Hanna or Kate. She hopes she's wrong, and she knows it's not her place to ask, not her business to wonder what the boss's wife has to tell him− but she can't stop the question.

Danny looks downright uncomfortable. "Honestly? I don't know. In the meantime, I'll call forensics for the DNA results."

She barely registers that he's started dialing− he gets an answer, talks for a moment, but she can't quiet comprehend what it's about.

_His wife_...

And where has _she_ been all this time? When Jack spends his nights looking for a clue, any clue, any indication that might help them catch Irina, does she simply close her eyes and drift to sleep? Do they even talk, or share breakfast, or have a family life anymore? Sam suddenly realizes that she knows nothing of Jack's personal life since he went back to his wife. How are things at home, apart from the fights on Christmas mornings?

"Jack," Danny sees their boss entering the bullpen, "DNA confirms that Mathew, Ryan, and Andrew were in Irina's car when−"

He stops abruptly. Jack doesn't talk, but something lands on the centre of the table, among the files and folders. A tag. A recognizable army dog tag. Sam doesn't have to take a closer look to know that it's got an inscription, _Alexei Ivanovitch, _and an identification number. Jack looks beaten, angry, upset. That little part of confidence in him seems gone− obviously, Irina did something he wasn't expecting; she sent the tag before they even found the body.

"We don't know that he's dead yet," Samantha breaks the silence.

Once again, Jack avoids her gaze. "He probably is."

"How did you get the tag?"

His voice hardens. "My wife came back home for a file. The tag was hanging from the door handle. I'd told her about this case, so she came here to ask what's going on."

Danny reacts quickly to the news. "If she's threatening your family, they should be placed under protection. And perhaps away from us," he says, trying to be tactful and not just plainly say, _away from you, Jack. _They all know what happened during the Spaulding case.

Jack eyes his phone distractedly, almost as if he were willing it to ring. "Security's working on it. They've also got uniforms and dogs walking around Central Park as we speak, trying to locate Alexei's body if he's dead. So far… nothing. Where are Vivian and Martin?"

"Martin's still with the tech guys; they're analyzing all the calls that were made to and from the number Irina gave Jeanette Riley. Vivian's interrogating Connelly's former cellmates to see if she might have talked to anyone."

"Bring them up to date as soon as you can."

"On my way," Danny leaves the bullpen grimly and sets off for the tech room, leaving Sam alone with Jack.

"How's, uh, how's Maria taking all this?" she asks hesitantly.

"Not well," Jack replies bluntly. "She's mad that it has to be this way, but she understands. She wouldn't want to risk Hanna and Kate's lives, so she's agreed for extra security until we catch her." He pauses, regarding her for a moment as if judging whether he should tell her. "She's also agreed it would be less dangerous if I got a hotel room and wasn't around for a while."

"Oh." It's all she finds to say. Not the time, not the place. "I guess it's, uh… the right thing to do."

His gaze is inscrutable. "Yeah, I suppose."

She's saved the trouble of having to find a way to end the conversation when his phone rings.

"Malone. Yes," he runs a hand through his hair agitatedly as he answers, "Okay, well can _I _get the address? Yeah, I'll wait," he listens for a moment, and motions for Sam to give him her pen. "Thank you. Yes, call me if there's anything else." He turns to her. "Someone recognized Irina near the Shea stadium yesterday. That's in Harlem, where she bought Mogadon. Her whereabouts have got to be there."

"Want me to run it?""

"No, leave it to Danny and Martin. I want you to interrogate the parents, family, girlfriend, find out where Alexei was the past couple of days. I want to know where Irina saw Alexei first− that'll tell us where she tracks Marines now that her accomplice no longer does it for her."

o o § o o

"Sergei?" Samantha asks gently. "Do you have any idea where your brother went the day before yesterday?"

The boy shakes his head, and continues to play with his Lego bricks.

"That's okay," she tells him. "How about… did you see anyone with you brother lately? Friends?"

"He has friends."

"Yes. Can you tell me about them? Do they have… erm… blonde hair? Brown hair?"

"Blonde. And black."

That's not helping her much. "Do you know where they live?"

"Ben's on W119th, near Morningside Park. Alexei took me there once."

Morningside Park… Sam quickly locates the place in her mind, using the knowledge of the city streets she's acquired over time. Morningside Park is in Harlem, a valuable piece of information since someone recognized Irina in the neighborhood. When Vivian reappears with Mrs. Ivanovitch, Sergei runs to his mother. She wraps him in a hug, her eyes red.

"Sergei don't forget your Legos," Sam tells the boy. She hands out the bricks to the kid, who slips them inside his pockets.

"What do you say to the lady, Sergei?" Mrs. Ivanovitch says quietly, a faint evidence of tears in her voice.

The boy looks up at Sam. "Thank you," he articulates.

His mother wipes at her eyes. Sam bites down on her lip, finding the moment incredibly sad.

"Where's my husband?"

"In the waiting room," Sam answers. "I'll take you to him." She nods at Vivian, then escorts Alexis's mother and her son through the corridors.

"Do you have anything? Have you found him?" Alexei's father bolts from his seat.

Sam remains in the doorframe, shakes her head slightly. "I'm sorry. We're still looking."

Exiting the room in silence, she can't help but wonder how many times she's said the word _sorry_in the past decade. How can you use the same word after you bump into someone in the street and when you tell a father that he won't ever see his son again?


	19. One chance in a million

Chapter 19 - One chance in a million  
_December 26th - Around 4 PM_

"Sam."

He looks worried and agitated and he barely leaves her enough time to take her coat off and hang it on the tree coat. The bowling owner was unhelpful, and more concerned about the reputation of his place than anything else. She'd admired Martin's patience and wondered how long she could have kept hers if she had been alone. Then she'd wondered if this was the reason Jack had sent Martin with her… and when her thoughts had started to drift to him, she'd stopped trying to think, because she was at work and she couldn't afford to be distracted.

She doesn't even make it to the bullpen on her way back, Jack discreetly waving her into his office.

"She left me a message. It's the same phone we've been tracking down all this time."

He can only be talking about Irina and she follows him to his desk as he presses the play button.

_Hello, Jack._

What disturbs Sam is the casual tone. It sounds like Irina is about to invite him to the movies.

_I know you've been busy lately. So have I, as a matter of fact. It'd be nice to see you again in person, but unfortunately we all have… _

There's a slight pause.

…_obligations. I was reading the paper this morning, knowing they'd mention our common friends. It disturbed me to find out they'd painted the portrait of their murderer so incorrectly. I've never been obsessed with male soldiers, not in that sick, perverted way they've alluded to. Nor am I schizophrenic. _

A short laugh follows, which freezes Sam to the bones. Jack grimaces as the message continues.

_I have a favor to ask, Jack. I want you to tell the press that they're mistaken, that you've already caught the murderer. In exchange, I'll refrain from sending pictures to your supervisor. I'll also give you a couple more days before killing Alexei._

Again, there's a short pause.

_It's a good deal. I you refuse… we're soon going to have more friends in common than ever. _

A second passes.

_I hope you're well, Jack._

"She's trying to provoke you," Sam tells him after a moment of shocked silence. "Obviously. She wants you to do make a mistake… to do something stupid that will work in her favor."

"Yeah?" Jack's fuming. "Well it's working. Damn it, if Van Doren receives−" he swears. "I'm calling Delia," he says, knowing only Delia Rivers will help him divulge only the information they want divulged. "She's the one who can help us. We'll stick to Irina's request, release a statement. We'll say we caught the killer, we'll make up a story. We'll stall her, keep her from killing Alexei."

He's talking rapidly now, and she can tell he hasn't had time to think this through, that he's acting on impulse. Making rash decisions, which she knows is exactly what Irina expects.

"Jack−" she stops him. As much as she'd like to believe Irina's every word, someone has to voice reason before more mistakes are made. "Alexei may be dead already. It's not because we haven't found his body that he's still alive."

"An insane number of cops are in Central Park braving the snow with scent dogs. They haven't found Alexei."

"It doesn't mean he's not there."

"I'm not gambling on that, Sam. If there's one chance in a million that he's alive, that the tag was just to throw us off balance, then we have to take it."

He's pleading with her now. Begging her to agree, to back up his decision even if all she can give him is advice and her own thoughts on this matter, not hierarchical support. "If we tell the media that we've caught the murderer, people will stop being careful. It might be easier for her to kill if she thinks no one's watching."

"We'll be watching. If she thinks she's safe, she'll get reckless. She'll slip up; she'll give us something to catch her…"

"Jack, she knows we'll still be looking out for her. She's not stupid."

"I never said she was."

"I never said you did…" She sighs, hating that he's waiting for her to make the decision. Running a hand through her hair distractedly, she meets his gaze at last. "One chance in a million… That's still one chance, Jack."

o o § o o

"Ten bucks that it only makes things worse."

Martin leans closer to Danny. "Why'd you always have to be so pessimistic?"

"It's not pessimism, my friends, it's realism."

Sam sends them both a tired glance. It's bad enough that they have to wait, stuck in the bullpen while Jack, Van Doren and Delia are working on the press release. Contacting the media isn't always the best solution. Sometimes it works out. Sometimes twenty other articles follow and the press builds up their own stories and it all goes to hell.

"You know, this girl…" Martin points at a picture of Irina Connelly on the table. She must have been no more than thirteen or fourteen at the time. Seated on a chair outside, she's simply looking at the camera− a hint of a smile on her lips, but a sad expression on her face. "She looks normal. Not like… not like she's going to turn into who she is now. It's disturbing. And she looks…"

"Lonely?" Vivian suggests.

"Yeah…"

"Must be hard, growing without parents."

"Must be hard to find out one of your friend's a serial killer. Must be hard for Jack," Danny says quietly. And while he says the words, he casts a fleeting glance in Samantha's direction.

She refuses to engage in this conversation, and wishes Jack _didn't_understand Irina so well. Then it wouldn't be so difficult to carry out this investigation knowing that he'll either end up sending a former friend to prison, or he'll fail professionally and innocent men will pay for his mistakes.

"Excuse me," a voice suddenly interrupts. Sam turns around in her chair, only to find herself towered by a tall man she hasn't seen yet. In his mid-thirties, with short brown hair and a sympathetic voice, he looks both energetic and friendly. After he clears his throat, he introduces himself: "I'm Mike Tass, Washington's missing person's unit," he offers a hand to Vivian and Sam, having only met Danny and Martin. "I know you're all busy but−"

"Not really," Martin gives a glance around the table, and Vivian adds, "To be fair, we're on a forced break."

"Well, I just need to know where you keep the files for the cases that are still open. Holy's too lazy to come down here, so…"

Martin, glad for the intermission, rises. "I'll show you to the archive room. The files on the right are closed, the ones on the left are the cases that were or are simultaneously handled by other divisions. As for the boxes on the far end…"

His voice trails off as he moves out of earshot. Before Samantha has the time to tell herself that this agent is, by the looks of it, an excellent profiler− you just get that impression off the guy when he looks at you− Danny announces, "Jack and Delia are done."

o o § o o

"So you're Samantha."

"Depends who's asking."

"Holy Kaiser."

Samantha looks up. "Oh, sorry," she turns off her desk lamp and rises. It's about six PM, but the light is dim. Younger than he partner, but seemingly as friendly and enthusiastic, Holy shakes her hand.

"So you two got the paperwork sorted out."

Behind Holy, Mike Tass waits patiently. It doesn't seem very hard to like them both.

"Yeah, we solved our case. We wanted to invite you all for a drink seeing as you're… not _that_ busy, but we don't know any good place around."

"I do," Danny suggests from his corner. "As long as you don't mind freezing lemonade. Martin, you with us? I'll get Jack and Viv."

The café they find is close, and Samantha reflects that instead of waiting for the next morning to find out how the press release will affect their case, this might be a great idea. They settle into a large booth, Mike and Martin getting an alcoholic beverage while the rest agree on soda. She's surprised Jack agreed to come. It's not his habit to socialize with agents who aren't in his direct reporting chain− not it times like these, at least. Maybe, she figures while he sips his drink across the table from her, he simply came here for the same reason as she did: to forget about the case, Irina, and Alexei.

"How's Olczyk?" Jack wonders, referring to Mike and Holy's boss. "He giving you hell?"

"The usual," Mike says fairly. "Boss is boss, you know."

"And that's saying something," Vivian jokes, giving Jack an amused quirk of the lips.

"Rumor has it, he's going to transfer to New York before the end of the year."

Jack looks at his glass and considers this for a moment. "Rumor's rumor," he shrugs. "If he comes here, he'll be on top of Van Doren anyway."

Curious, Danny interrupts, "How do you know this guy?"

"We had a case together about eight or nine years ago. Missing New Yorkers found dead in Washington. The interrogations were inconclusive and the degree of sophistication in the murders was baffling− basically these people had dropped dead in the middle of streets full of people for no particular reason."

"How had they died?"

"Intoxication. They'd all inhaled the same type of chemical fumes. We linked them back to a factory conducting research on fertilizers."

Intrigued, Holy questions, "How did they end up in Washington?"

Jack folds his hands, knowing he has everyone's attention. "It was pure coincidence. The first one was there for business. The second one, Anna, was visiting her brother. The third and fourth were friends and they'd gone there for the weekend."

"All coincidental?" Holy says disbelievingly. "I have a hard time believing that."

Jack turns to her. "You shouldn't rely on coincidences, but you have to take them into account. Sometimes, it just happens that way."

Vivian smirks. "Kids, that was your advice for the night."

A collective laugh follows. Samantha looks up and meets Jack's eyes, holding his gaze for a moment. Unaware of the silent exchange, the rest share a few more stories− it's always interesting to hear about other departments− and, quite relaxed, finish their drinks.

"See you guys," they finally say their farewells, Vivian glad to go home early, the rest of the team happy to rest. It's still earlier than it usually is when they leave the office.

"Anyone need a ride?" Danny offers, and Mike and Holy both accept.

Martin hails a cab, Vivian takes out her car keys.

"Need a ride?" Jack echoes when they're left alone, and Samantha can't tell if he's only being polite, or if there's something more behind the words.

"I drove this morning," she declines the offer, quickly.

"Okay," he nods. Defeat of some sort. He hesitates, and then asks impulsively, "You hungry?"

"Aren't you supposed to go back to your family?"

Jack tucks his hands inside his pockets to warm them. "Not tonight. They're under protection… I'm supposed to stay away from them, remember? I'm the dangerous one." He looks down, at his feet, anywhere but at her. "So, you hungry?"

Cautious, she wonders, "What do you have in mind?"

"We could find something quick."

"Okay," she thinks with longing of a calm restaurant with white tablecloths, candles and soft music. But the past isn't going to repeat itself, so she simply starts walking on the sidewalk beside him and keeps her thoughts to herself.

"You in for some Chinese?"

She nods. Chinese sounds good. They go to the Deli across the street and are shown to a table for two beside the window. It's nice to be eating with him− not pretending the other doesn't exist anymore. She guesses he's here to talk, and she's right; they talk about the case. It's work-related, yet she can tell they aren't at work anymore, not with the way he shares his conjectures. He wouldn't assume things like that if he'd called in a team meeting; he'd tell them what he knows for a fact. Now they're bouncing theories and ideas from one another and they could very well have been doing this at her apartment.

"I don't know if this press release will make any difference," he shakes his head, taps his fork against the side of his plate.

"You seemed quite sure that it would."

"The more I think about it… the more I believe she was trying to play me." He falls silent for a few seconds, and abruptly wonders, "What if I were wrong?"

"If she played you, what do you think her real goal is?"

"I don't know…" he heaves a sigh. "I don't know, Sam." He starts to eat again.

She's surprised at how much tension their impromptu dinner eases off. It's been a while since she's been so comfortable in Jack's presence; a fact that he seems to have noted too, for he doesn't try to avert his eyes anymore. Not only are they sharing more than platitudes, but she can also feel a current of electricity running between them− like it did a long time ago and like it did when he kissed her the day before. A comforting kiss− or was it something more?

Now his gaze is starting to make her feel a little uncomfortable− for a different reason altogether− and she decides to speak.

"This place is great," she comments, and is rewarded with a warm smile. They've both finished their plates by now. "We hadn't been here in a while."

His brow furrows. "Last time was after finding Maggie Carthwright."

"Yeah, that's when you decided to play kamikaze and order the extra spicy sauce."

"Don't you dare bring that up," he warns playfully, and picks up the menu with the desserts. She doesn't know he has vengeance in mind until her offers teasingly, "Cheesecake?"

Samantha groans. "Don't you dare−"

She doesn't finish, the sudden shrill of his phone interrupting them. He murmurs an apology, saying he needs to pick up, then rises and walks outside.

She can that tell something's wrong. It's not very hard, not when he's standing like that, just outside, nodding slowly. So much for getting a dessert and calling it a night. She hastily leaves some cash on the table and joins him outside the Deli, her hand immediately going to his arm as he hangs up.

He watches her hand before his eyes journey back to her face− then in a raw voice, he announces, "They found him."

Her shoulders slumping, she acquiesces slowly.

o o § o o

It's all part of a blur now− the excitement of the evening with Holy and Mike, the Deli across the street, the phone call… realizing just how useless the press statement was when they reached Central Park and its blaring sirens, crude lights, and all the quiet conversation about the horrible crime, relayed from ear to ear, like a secret, a ghastly secret that would make the headlines the next morning.

On the forefront of her mind, the images are violent and bright: Alexei's glassy eyes, the park's shadows and the sudden exposure to artificial lights, a few flashes and among them, a sharpened blade, blood, an unheard cry for help. Then there's a scream− not Irina's or Alexei's or the young police officer who found him, but his mother− a scream Sam will forever remember.

She's driving in silence now, the digits on the dashboard reminding her that they've passed midnight eleven minutes ago. It was right around the time Jack closed the front door of the house where Alexei's tearful parents were going to spend the night with a neighbor, and right before he leaned against their concrete porch and covered his mouth with his hand.

She knew right then that she had to take his keys and get him back downtown to the hotel he'd chosen earlier that day.

Stealing a glance aside, all she can see is his face resolutely turned the other way. She knows he's thinking of Ryan who was on leave for the weekend, of Mathew who wanted to go to College; he's thinking of Andrew and Jeremy and they're all coming back to haunt him.

"Jack?"

The car is stopped and it's only then that he moves, his eyes stopping on the hotel entrance. He blinks a few times, from tiredness perhaps, then decides, "I don't want to talk."

"I do."

"Sam− it's all screwed up, okay? Irina, the pictures, Alexis dead… She didn't even give a damn about the press release, it was all a game. And I fell for it like a rookie."

"We all fell for it."

"I'd give my job to stop her. You know I would." He stops, corrects in a soft tone, "I will, if it's necessary. But I don't want to talk about it… Not even with you."

And with that, he opens the door on his side and steps out into the cool night's air.

She remains seated for no more than a couple of seconds, knowing what she should do and also knowing what she wants to do. Entering the building behind him, she walks past the lobby, past the flat screen and the monotonous voice of a commentator blaring sports news, right until she enters the elevator with Jack. He doesn't ask what she's doing, but neither does she have to explain. Not really.

By the time the elevator slows to a halt, they still haven't exchanged a word, and when he produces a lonely key, she simply waits for him to enter the room before she follows him inside. Then it all comes back to her− the gestures she accomplished naturally what feels like a lifetime ago− locking the door, turning on the light, getting a glimpse of the hotel's wrapped soap bars in the bathroom, watching as he drops his coat on the bed. The walls are a soothing shade of green, and the bed sheets white and simple, but it's him she watches− the quiet distress on his face, his eyes on her, the hesitation in his gaze.

She moves to him and wraps her slender arms around his neck. He doesn't react for an instant, and then his body relaxes, the frustration leaving him for a wonderful moment. Her fingers travel to his face, to his back, and she would have wanted to possess more hands, to hold and to comfort, enough to forget about his marriage and his job and the case, enough to hold him all night, to hold him forever.

Reacquainting himself with the feel of her body against him, he moves his hand to her waist and clings to her, pleading against her ear, "Stay with me tonight."

"You know I will," she whispers.

When they part, he removes his jacket, tie, shoes in one movement and drops on the bed heavily. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't think about how his shirt will be rumpled tomorrow or about how what they're doing would look like on the outside.

She watches him kick off his shoes before he slips under the covers, and waits against the wall− arms crossed, heart beating too fast, mind trying to figure out−

_His wife will know._

Wives found out these things. Wives−

Her own shoes are on the carpet and her jacket discarded, and before she knows what she's really doing, what she's agreed to, and what it means, she's moving to him− past the small table on the left, killing off the lights, slipping under the cool white sheets. Her body falls against his, easily and naturally, his arm wraps around her waist and her head falls on his shoulder, safe and warm, forbidden and yet as natural as having his breath so close, as easy as having his lips lightly kiss the top of her head before her eyes begin to flutter shut.

Curled up against him, she feels the need to reassure, "We'll find her."

Shifting slightly, he draws her closer against his chest. One of her hands finds his, their fingers joining.

In the dark, he whispers against her ear, "I hope so, Sam."

_tbc..._


	20. On the road, Part I

I'm sorry for the delay. I've been really busy lately, but I should be able to post more regularly now. Next chapter within the week, I promise! M, thanks as always for going over this. And thank you to those who take the time to review, it's really appreciated. To those who just drop by to read-- though I don't know who you are, thanks as well for sticking with the story !

Chapter 20 - On the road, Part I  


_Following morning_

She wakes up at the break of dawn, the moment when there is as much light as there are shadows. The first rays of sun cast a faint light in the room, bathing it in a yellow hue. Reality is still unclear, difficult to dissociate from the dream she's been having. It's a recurrent dream, vivid and unambiguous, and it involves the man sleeping beside her.

It always does.

Jack's eyes stop on hers. "Hey," he mutters.

She realizes he isn't sleeping anymore, simply observing her. Conflicted, she wonders if this is the moment when she should throw off the covers and get out of bed− or if, somehow, it's appropriate to remain this close.

"Sleep well?"

She opts for remaining exactly where she is. "Yeah…" she yawns. "I had some nice dreams."

"How nice?"

Their eyes lock− so much for casual conversation. Not wanting to say more, she hesitates and wonders how wrong it would be if to softly brush her hand against his neck.

"How did _you _sleep?"

He smiles. "Great. No nightmares."

The words work a slow path to her brain. She's not really sure how many hours of sleep he's had in the past few weeks, but tonight might just have doubled his count. "Wasn't that the point?"

"Yeah," he answers softly. "I think it was." And then, with a sigh, he gives in to what she's been denying herself− the contact of his hand on her skin, slowly sliding over her shoulder and upwards. It's so easy to do this− to ease the other's pain with a look or a touch; to pretend that the rest of their relationship can be as simple as this. It would be so simple to start all over again. To hold him. To forget that they have a case to solve, and a killer to catch.

"There's something you should know." His fingers move across her throat, behind her ear. "I can't sleep when you're not with me."

His words are heartfelt and it flashes before her eyes in a millisecond− a thousand memories, a thousand emotions. A thousand times when he looked at her like that, a thousand moments when she thought she could get used to whatever it was they were doing… get used to going to the store with him, get used to opening the door in the evening and seeing him standing there, get used to waking up next to him…

When she feels his fingers on her neck her eyes flutter shut, wanting the moment to last. His eyes journey downwards, resting for a moment on her waist…

"See anything you like?" she teases softly.

He clears his throat. "Yeah."

She can't believe they're flirting like that. Has it been so long ago since they've been this close? Her own eyes are starting to drift to places they shouldn't.

"See anything_ you_ like?"

She feels a blush creeping up her cheeks. She loses herself in his eyes… and isn't sure just how wrong this is and how long it will be before his control snaps. She can see the indecision in his gaze, how he seems to be thinking that this isn't a good idea− and yet the temptation seems too great to overcome.

"Jack−"

"Yeah−"

Breathless. Lips parted, head dipped− "Are you sure we should−"

"Probably not."

She takes a long breath while he gives her hand a light squeeze, shutting his eyes and rolling to his side. The moment over, she sits and throws off the covers. Already missing his warmth, she asks, "Coffee?"

He smiles softly. "Always."

o o § o o

When Martin comes to her, she's examining their latest findings, the folders spread across her desk between her coffee cup and Danny's football− she isn't sure how the latter ended up in her cubicle.

"Can you check this out?"

Surprised that Martin is asking her to verify something, she stands and takes the sheet of paper he's handing her. It's apparently a very old case, the dry paper slightly yellow from age and scraping her fingers. There are two names at the top, George and Jerry Damon, but despite her best efforts to remember them, her mind doesn't produce a recollection.

"Brothers?" she enquires.

"Twins."

"Doesn't ring a bell."

Martin points at the bottom of the document, which reads 1986. "Before our time."

She's tempted to ask what's so interesting about them, but holds her breath and quickly scans the information, growing progressively interested as she does so. Words catch her attention. Double murder. Central Park. The year, the month, the circumstances− it all adds up and it all fits. But she forces herself to stay composed, knowing it might be only a coincidence, a random similarity…

"Martin," she says when she's done. "Do you know how important this is?"

"I think I do... But I might be wrong, it might not have been Irina. She was still young in 1986, and a double murder…"

"It's Central Park," Samantha insists. "It was dark, ten PM. They were both Marines. The murderer used a knife." Then, enquiring further, "Anyone took the fall?"

"Yep. A homeless man who claimed his innocence all along. He died a few years ago."

o o § o o

"Samantha?"

"What?" she asks, hopeful.

Vivian waits until she sits down to hand her a report. "We were able to trace the sedan Irina's driving back to a station off the highway," Vivian points in the direction of the board beside her where a map is displayed. "Connelly gave a phone call early in the morning from that same station on the cell phone we're tracking."

Walking to the map, Samantha's eyes follow the push-pins. A red one is now located on a gas station fifty miles away from New York. "Where's Danny?"

"He's closing in on Irina's past whereabouts. Alexei's friend Ben was in Harlem; Irina bought Nitrazepam there; and she's been spotted in the neighborhood− it's a matter of hours until we find her hideout."

"What about Martin and Jack?"

"Martin's investigating further on that 1986 double murder. Jack's in his office making calls; he called in a team meeting at one."

Sam checks her watch, realizing that's in less than an hour. "You need some help with anything?"

Vivian hands her a binder wordlessly, and Samantha gets back to work.

It's barely fifteen minutes before Danny shows up, landing himself on the chair across from Vivian. Jack is behind him.

"Got it," Danny says with a triumphant look. "Irina finally turned on her cell phone and made another call from her car. She's headed to Lancaster."

"Lancaster?" Vivian repeats. "What's in Lancaster?"

Danny shrugs.

"Aunt Christie," Jack states.

They all look up at him. Vivian, eyes trained on him, declares, "She doesn't have family alive."

"It's not family," Jack says slowly. "Irina's mother died shortly after her father. She was a foster kid, but she kept in touch with this woman, Aunt Christie, a friend of her parents. She used to live in Lancaster, I guess it's still the case."

"It's not in the file," Sam points out. It's unlikely that she missed something so important, and she is quite sure she has never seen the name.

"No, it's not," Jack simply says.

"How far is Lancaster?" Vivian asks.

Danny looks at the map, quickly does the math. "About three hours, if traffic isn't too bad."

"All right," Jack decides quickly. "Viv, we're going there."

"It's Thursday," Vivian says apologetically.

"Oh," Jack nods. "Yeah, sorry." He knows Vivian needs to pick up Reggie from boxing practice on Thursdays. He looks over at Danny, seems to debate having him along. "Fine, I'll go with Samantha. Martin says he's almost found Irina's whereabouts− Danny, you help him. When you figure it out, get Van Doren and she'll clear you to call in a SWAT team. Viv, you're in charge while I'm gone. You get a chance to baby-sit," he eyes Danny with a smirk.

"What, I have to tell the boys to clean their rooms?"

"And make sure they brush their teeth before they go to sleep."

Danny rolls his eyes.

o o § o o

Taking a seat in the passenger's seat while Jack gets to drive, Samantha eyes him closely. She isn't quite sure what to think about this new development to the case. And taking this trip outside the city together might be dangerous, especially after the previous night.

He smoothly maneuvers the car outside of the parking lot, stating simply, "We should be back tonight," and putting on some music.

She waits until they're out of traffic and onto the highway fifteen minutes later before she reaches out for the radio and turns it off. She's not exactly in the mood for country right now.

"That was smart of Connelly," she remarks. "Leaving the city just when we get too close."

Jack nods pensively. "She'll be back." He rests his elbow against the window, falling silent for a minute. "I think… I made a mistake," he says after a while.

"We all make mistakes."

"Yeah?" he glances at her. "Well I'm a little too above average in that department."

"You couldn't know she would suddenly up and go," she says fairly, trying to ease his guilt.

"I should've. I could've… predicted it."

Curious, she wonders, "How do you know Aunt Christie? Did Irina talk to you about her?"

He makes a move for the radio with the clear intention to end this conversation, but she catches his wrist halfway.

"Let go. Let go, Sam."

She bites on her lower lip, removes her hand from his arm with, again, the distinct impression that his relationship with Irina Connelly was more personal than he's willing to admit. "I just want to help you," she whispers.

He sighs, seems to wonder for a moment what's best, and runs a hand over his eyes. Conflicted, tortured eyes. Then, keeping one hand on the wheel, he reaches out for her fingers with the other and squeezes them briefly.

"In College, I, uh… I took psychology courses."

She says nothing, just gently covers his hand with hers.

"It sort of… made me think back about the past." He doesn't look at her now, simply continues to drive, but she can hear the sadness in his voice. A heartbreaking sadness. "And I started thinking about my mom, Sam."

She shuts her eyes briefly, makes an effort not to lean aside and wrap her arm around his shoulders.

"Irina knew what it was like. She knew because after her father died, her mom… she sort of lost it and one day she jumped from a fourth-floor building. So I guess… I guess that made us similar and we talked a lot and we told each other things as… as friends."

Sam looks at her feet now, uncomfortable as he uncovers this part of his past she never heard about.

"And now Irina's messed up too and I'm thinking… I'm thinking it could've been me, Sam. Maybe it _is_me. Maybe I'm just going to end up like her someday."

"Jack−" she finally finds her voice. "You're nothing like Irina. You'd never kill people. You'd never cheat and manipulate and you wouldn't threaten her the way she threatened your family."

"Empty threats," he replies, shaking his head vigorously. "Just empty threats, Sam. She'll have a go at me, at my job, my career, whatever. But she'll never touch a hair of my family. She'd never use my mother or my girls against me. Ever."

The situation Jack is in, as paradoxical as it might seem, is starting to make sense. Friends, confidents, enemies. It's this weird game between Irina and him, like they would give their lives to keep each other's secrets and use those same secrets to end lives.

Staring at the road, he continues, "Aunt Christie was the one person Irina could love. She was… the closest replacement to a mother she ever had and I'm the only one who knows this. She trusts me with this knowledge and I don't feel… I don't feel comfortable breeching that trust."

Unconsciously, Samantha brushes her fingers over his knuckles. "She doesn't deserve your trust anymore, Jack."

He keeps driving in silence for a moment. She doesn't think he'll say anything else, but he goes on, "About that day in court−"

"You don't have to explain."

"Yes, I do. Irina had asked me to do something for her."

Again, she waits. She might finally get the answer concerning the video tape mystery that made her so uneasy− the hand-squeeze.

"She asked me to keep an eye on Aunt Christie and her husband Louis while she was in jail. Just in case something happened to them, she wanted to… I don't know, be… informed. I told her I'd do that. When Louis died, I went to visit Irina in prison." He pauses. "I just thought she'd like to hear the news from me."

"How did he die?"

"Car crash. Since then, Aunt Christie is in a medical home in Lancaster."

"Ok, Jack." She wishes she could give him a hug or something, but instead released his hand.

The rest of the drive is quiet, the traffic fast and moving. On their way to Lancaster, Jack decides to stop at the gas station, the one where Connelly was last seen. He parks and turns to Samantha, motioning in the direction of an employee.

"Why don't you interrogate that guy over there?"

"Why me?"

"Because I know you'll probably be a hell of a lot more tactful than I would be right now. And because you get restless when we drive for too long, so I'm sure getting information out of this guy will be the perfect way to calm your nerves."

"You think you know me that well?" She laughs, and the challenge is set.

"I think you always get what you want."

His eyes don't leave hers and her smile fades. She watches as the sunlight falls on his dark hair, swallows hard, and looks right back at him. "No," she says quietly. "Not always."

Ten minutes later, she's back shaking her head. "It's his buddy who was here; he already talked to the police. He confirms it was a white sedan, no one else was in sight."

"You think he's lying?"

"He'd have no reason to. I just don't think Irina stayed here long, Jack."

"Ok." He nods and points out, "We need gas."

She watches as he takes out his credit card and slides it into the slot. Her eyes follow his movements, stuck there as though by a magnet. Privately, she enjoys the swiftness of the familiar gesture as he closes his wallet and makes it disappear inside one of his coat's pocket. It's stupid, being so fascinated with an American Gold MasterCard… just because he once paid drinks and hotel rooms with it.

_Damn it, Sam,_ she thinks, _get a grip_.

o o § o o

"Did you talk to her?"

"I can't tell you that, for our patient's privacy I−"

Jack has this wild look, like he's seen too much in too little time. He leans down to be on the same level as the adamant nurse, and though he doesn't shout, there's something hard in his voice. This is don't-waste-my-time Jack Malone, Sam reflects as he says, "Either you tell me what I want to know, or you come with us. And trust me, we can continue this interrogation in less comfortable quarters."

Sam wonders if he hasn't gone too far and she will close up like an oyster, but the nurse− Linda, according to her tag− finally declares, "Okay, this woman came here to check on Christina Arkins. She wanted to make sure she was being taken care of properly. The family was late on checks, and she paid two months in advance."

"How is Aunt− Mrs. Arkins?" Jack wants to make sure he's not being lied to.

"She's still in a coma since the accident. She receives the occasional visit from her brother. This woman never came here before."

"How did she look?"

"Calm."

"Did she say something? Erm, where she lived, if she was alone… anything?"

The nurse racks her brain. "Not really. She didn't stay long. She said she liked the weather and then… she said she was going to pay a visit to a friend."

Jack exchanges a rapid glance with Sam. "What friend?"

The nurse shrugs. "I don't know, some army acquaintance."

Samantha's heart almost stops. "Did she say where?"

"In… in Johnstown, I think."

Five minutes later, they're outside and Samantha is on the phone with Vivian, pacing around the car. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah," Viv answers. "Unfortunately."

She shuts her eyes briefly. "Oh, God." She hangs up, makes her way to Jack, and explains, "A young Marine just went missing in Johnstown. He lives there with his parents."

"When did he go missing?" he asks curtly.

"The police were called a couple of hours ago. His name's Steven. Steven Anderson. Single, twenty-two, nothing but a couple of parking tickets last year."

"What happened?"

"According to the police officer Danny had on the phone, he was going to the stadium to play baseball with a friend. He never made it."

Jack frowns. "He was abducted in broad daylight?"

"Yeah. I think− I think Connelly's angry. So she just targets someone elsewhere, where it's less dangerous. She'll probably take him back to New York to kill him," Sam says cynically.

Giving a glance around at the countryside, Jack walks back to his side of the car and unlocks it. "Why did she pick Johnstown?"

"The airport?" she supplies.

"Johnstown-Cambria county airport?"

"Yeah."

"Damn it," Jack swears quietly. "There are Marines based there." He slides behind the wheel again, waiting until Sam is seated to ask, "How far is Johnstown?"

Samantha thinks quickly. "About 170 miles from here."

Before he starts the engine, Jack turns to her. "If we go back to New York and Danny boards the first plane with Martin, they won't be there before at least five hours, security's a bitch. Otherwise, it's a three hours drive."

She doesn't hesitate. "Then let's drive."

"You sure it's a good idea?"

It's her turn to pause, hesitate. This means they won't be back in New York for a while. "Yeah, Jack."


	21. On the road, Part II

Not much to add, expect that this chapter's rated T. Definitely. Enjoy : )

Chapter 21 - On the Road, Part II

A couple of hours later they're still on the road and en route to Johnstown. Among everything, there's determination on Jack's face; resignation to do what needs to be done. She opens her phone to call Viv for any new development, but it rings before she has the time to hit speed dial.

"Danny," she informs Jack when she sees the number.

His voice is rapid, excited, as he informs her of their latest discovery. A definite break in the case: they found Irina's whereabouts, called in SWAT… Samantha listens, then turns to Jack. "They found her hideout." Pulse quickening, she explains, "It was a basement in Southern Harlem, not far from the Park. They had two different witnesses who saw a woman matching her description around the block."

Worried, Jack wonders, "What did they find?"

"Gags, ropes, an empty bottle of Mogadon pills. Forensics team is still collecting evidence." Pausing, she adds, "Of course, no Irina. She obviously left the place yesterday or even before that. They also found gas drums. No wonder we had no luck with the gas stations: she was home-refueling."

"Good," he nods. "That's great. Irina won't have a place to stay anymore." He slows the car. Checking the numbers of the houses that all look the same, he parks in front of a low green fence. The mailbox reads _Anderson family._

o o § o o

"He has it all figured out." Behind her blatant concern at the situation, Steven' mother beams with unmistakable pride. "He's going to serve his six remaining months and then he's going to get married. He's planning on taking Cassie to Hawaii for their honeymoon. I think he's been saving all year for that."

Taking out her notepad, Samantha asks for the needed information on Steven's future wife, only to find out that she's currently studying in Virginia.

"Do you have her address and phone number, Mrs Anderson?"

"I already told the police when they were here…"

"I know. I just need to double-check."

Samantha receives a weak nod, and Mrs Anderson heads upstairs while her husband goes for some coffee. Feeling ill-at-ease left alone in the middle of their vast living room, Samantha walks to Jack who stands beside the wall, his eyes on a number of family pictures. There's something about Steven's smiling face that pulls at her heart. Smiling kids do that to her, but Steven in particular. For some… unfathomable reason.

"What do you think?"

"They would've made a nice couple," she whispers, realizing too late that she used the past tense. It feels like she's already given up on Steven, and she's ashamed of it.

She sees a muscle in his jaw twitch, then he says in an undertone, "Hawaii, uh?"

Following his eyes, she sees Steven and Cassie on one of the photographs, and imagines them casually leaning against each other on a sandy beach. White sand… cloudless sky… surfers… palm trees. Lots of palm trees. Her throat feels tight. "Ever been there?"

He shakes his head. "No. Although it must have been on the list of places to visit sometime in the last decade," he smirks. "You?"

"No," she cracks a smile. "My boss tends to send me to cold, rainy cities for business. Sort of like… Pittsburgh and Cleveland. When you find a beach in any of those places, let me know."

"It's a pity I could never take you to Hawaii," he says in a light tone. 

She wants to keep it light too, but something about his playful tone feels wrong, and she averts her eyes. These comments… they feel right but also carry another sad, painful reminder of what they'll never have.

Steven's mother reappears and his father joins them a couple of minutes later.

"He's twenty-two," Mrs. Anderson starts firmly, as if the two minutes she spent upstairs gave her a new purpose, a new faith. "He's twenty-two and he's getting married."

_Twenty-two…_

Samantha blinks, not liking where her thoughts are going.

"He's a great kid… I mean he doesn't drink or do drugs and− you don't think anything _bad_happened to him, do you?"

Before any of them can say something, Jack's phone rings.

"Excuse me," he says politely. Rising, he walks toward the door and stops only when he's out of earshot. Meanwhile, Mrs Anderson hands Samantha the address. "Thank you, we'll check it out," she assures. From where she sits, she can see Jack suddenly blanch. When he walks back to them, he closes his phone slowly, making sure Steven's parents are on the couch before he takes a seat, facing them.

Before he speaks, before he can even make a sound, Steven's mother lets out a shriek. She already it can only mean one thing. 

"Mrs Anderson…" Jack's voice trails away into nothingness. There's really nothing else you can say in this case.

Sam leans back against her chair, shutting her eyes. Damn it. Like she needed to hear that. Like she needed to be there to face more screams and tears and−

Silence. A numb, horrified silence.

"Can we− can we see him? I− I need to see him."

Speaking quietly, Jack nods. "I'll have an agent take you to the airport and we'll arrange transportation to New York."

The next fifteen minutes pass in a daze. She quickly makes a phone call as Jack tries to explain as gently as he can manage what happened to Steven. He fumbles with words, and she brushes her hand against his arm imperceptibly when he gets to the point where he has to explain that no, it wasn't Steven's fault, yes, it was random… no, you couldn't predict it, yes, if _maybe_ Steven had waited a day to play baseball−

A knock on the door startles her and she goes to open it, finding a couple of local agents waiting, probably the same ones that were here three hours ago to fill in the preliminary reports on Steven's disappearance. Samantha steps outside and explains the situation, how Mr. and Mrs. Anderson need to be taken to the airport and board the first plane to New York.

"Agent Spade?"

Steven Anderson's tear-streaked father looks at her in the eyes as she guides him outside. "He was twenty-two," he says, his eyes so frighteningly lost. "This shouldn't have happened to him."

She swallows the sour taste in her mouth and forces her lips apart. "No, it shouldn't have."

o o § o o

It all falls together horribly, like the pieces of a macabre puzzle. Clearly, Irina Connelly was back in New York when they were driving between Lancaster and Johnstown, trying to figure out where she was headed next.

"I was twenty-two."

The night is silent, the obscurity outside unwelcoming. He didn't expect her to talk. "What?"

She lets a moment go by, lets a couple of dark intersection signs pass before she continues. "You asked me a long time ago what age I was when I got married." Her lips tremble, her voice catches. "I was twenty-two, Jack. Just like Steven."

Reaching aside, he briefly squeezes her hand on the wheel before retrieving his arm. "It's all right."

She wants to tell him, no, it won't, it's all wrong. 

"You should let me take over."

She takes the first exit, steps out when she's stopped the car and stretches her legs. He walks around the car and leans against it, his eyes lost in the distance, like he's toying with an idea. "It's another two-and-a-half hours to New York." 

She doesn't answer. Almost three hours. Then what? Her empty apartment. She'll have to settle back in. Take a shower. Face the silence, slip under cool bed sheets and maybe… try not to remember the past few days. 

"We're not far from the nearest city," she states.

He speaks carefully. "Motel?" 

Seeing her nod slowly, he shuts his eyes, seemingly glad that they're in agreement. "I'll, uh, I'll just make a phone call."

She knows exactly who he's calling and it's not like she's eager to hear that conversation. "I'll leave Viv a message to tell her we won't be in the office until mid-morning tomorrow."

He walks away and she's back in the passenger seat when he reappears and watches her looking at the night with the door open. She sits in the wind and the bitter cold, listening as the winter angels sing in the snow. And her thoughts… her thoughts drift to a mother and a father who hear those same angels weeping and carrying away the memory of their son. So she stares at shooting stars that look like sparkles in the night, and sees only the broken heavens. 

And she whispers his name. "Jack."

He hesitates with his elbow on top of the door, knowing that's not her usual tone; and for a moment he stands there, leaning against the frame of the car, eyes dark and face half plunged in the darkness. He wants to speak, but the words elude him. It's late, Sam. It's cold, Sam. It's dark and I wish I could−

He closes her door and walks around the car, starting the engine in silence. It seems to be hours before he stops and parks on a half-empty parking lit only by the occasional headlamp, yet it must have been no more than a few minutes.

When she doesn't move from the passenger's seat, he walks around the car and opens her door. "You, uh… you want to wait in the car?"

She shakes her head and steps out, even if it's still dark and it's still cold. It's not like she could bear to wait again. The lobby is comprised only of a small desk and a locked panel of keys, and two or three minutes pass before the owner finally shows up.

"Sorry," he apologizes quickly. "How can I help you?"

"You have vacancy?"

The man observes them both for a moment, and Sam figures he must be trying to determine if they're colleagues or friends, since it must be obvious they're not husband and wife. It must be obvious that they're a mess, too. "Yeah," he finally nods. He grabs an old, tattered registry and Sam distantly wonders if he's heard of computers. 

"Where are you guys from?"

The guy looks compassionate, like he's bored, and Sam feels like he deserves at least a courteous answer. "We're headed to New York, but it's a long drive from Johnstown. We could use some rest."

The owner nods sympathetically, with an understanding smile that seems to mean, _it looks like you could indeed use the rest. _"How long are you planning on staying?"

"Just the night," Jack answers curtly.

The owner asks for Jack's name. He scribbles it on that old registry of his and looks up at them both before asking casually, "One or two rooms?"

Her lips part; she's about to reply with the obvious when Jack answers, "One."

Immediately, she turns to meet his eyes. And he has that look… the one that takes her breath away.

He hands over cash and he's presented with a key in return, and she's still rooted on the spot when he touches her arm slightly and brings her back to reality. The walk across the parking lot is short and she follows him in a daze, still unsure of what just happened. They stand face to face for a moment in front of the door, looking at each other. They've never… hesitated like that before. But then again they haven't… they haven't been alone so far from New York in a long time.

The key turns in the lock; he holds the door for her to enter and she brushes past him on her way in, dropping her bag on the table while he removes his shoes. The room isn't different from the ones she's entered in the past, the curtains drawn and the queen bed facing a TV waiting to be turned on. 

She thinks back to the event of the day and feels her eyes blurring, a tear falling from the corner of her eye. At this point, she doesn't care if Jack notices.

"Sam…" he says in a soothing voice.

Her eyes stop on his untied shoes, his loosened tie, the hollow look in his eyes. She thinks of all the reasons why they shouldn't be doing this. And all the reasons why they should. She wants to speak, but what could she possibly say? This is wrong, Jack. This isn't going to solve anything, Jack.

I want this, Jack.

"Tomorrow we'll have to account for−"

"Let's worry about tomorrow, tomorrow."

She nods and walks to him, slides an arm around his waist wordlessly and leans her head against his shoulder. God, how she wishes she could make the emptiness go away tonight. 

He lets his arm drop to his side and finds her eyes. Less than a second passes before his hand travels upwards and touches her cheek. He slowly leans forward and she can feel his breath on her jaw and it's too late to move away. He kisses her gently, and she welcomes the sudden feel of his mouth on hers, his warm, soft lips moving in unison with hers. It's not right, it's not going to change a thing and not going to bring Steven back, but she kisses him anyway.

He pulls back slightly, runs a hand tenderly along the curve of her neck. "Sam?"

"Yeah?"

He hesitates. "Nothing."

Their lips meet again, it's soft and her stomach flips, just the way it always does with him. She doesn't know what to say, doesn't know what to think except that this feels good and she never wants it to stop. Her hands slide along his shirt as he pulls her tightly to him. She brings her lips to his neck, tastes the soft flesh under his chin and he remains still as she makes her way lower. He tastes like Jack; he smells like in her dreams, feels like that one tangible peace of reality she can hold on to in this instant. After a few seconds of silence, broken only by a few sharp intakes of breath, she moves her hands down his shirt and starts working on the buttons, undoing them one by one. 

She's done this before. With men she never loved, with one she thought she might, and with men she conveniently forgot. She forgot the way they whispered her name and were gone, forgot who they came as and who they left as and who they were in between. 

Except one. She forgot to forget Jack for the simple reason that she can't forget how it feels to do exactly what she's doing to him right now. 

He says nothing as she trails paths along his shoulders, across his chest; he doesn't move, doesn't seem to be daring to blink, but she can feel his heartbeat increasing with each passing second. She moves her way back upwards, lips brushing against warm skin until she finds the curve of his neck. As her tongue teases his skin, his eyes slip shut, and only a small breath escapes his lips, stifled as he tries to maintain some amount of control. 

"Samantha?"

She looks up into his eyes.

"I, uh," he draws in a breath. "I missed you."

His hands are on her waist now and all she can muster is a quiet moan against his lips. 

"I really…" he says, his voice raw, "Really missed you."

God, how she misses him too. She misses him now. All the time. She'll always miss him. But this, she thinks− this is the worse way to miss him. To know he's right here, with her, knowing he's not hers to have. Knowing he never was.

Their lips fuse, claiming each other's mouths again, readjusting themselves to the feel of each other, the unique taste of one another. This is all that matters for the moment; the taste of his lips, his tongue moving against hers, his hands exploring, rediscovering. His lips brush across her throat, drawing patterns in a similar way as she just did across his. Her head falls backwards, until her hands finally grip his open shirt and pull it off him, needing to feel him, all of him, without the material between them.

His shirt falls to the floor, inducing a small gasp, and he shivers slightly, cold air meeting warm skin. 

"Sorry," she mutters, but somehow she isn't sorry at all. Isn't sorry that he's with her tonight, isn't sorry when she feels him undressing her deftly, the pace slow and yet sustaining a degree of urgency that neither can ignore. Her lips ache to kiss him again, to taste him the way she's tasted him before− lips on lips, tongues gently prodding each other's mouth, his breath mingling with hers… and his hands, usually so out of reach, now roaming over her body… 

Tonight it feels like… they've found each other again. She brushes her fingers over his cheek. _Jack,_she wants to tell him, _Jack, I'm not sorry. Not about this. Not ever._

_tbc…_


	22. Revelations

A/N: To Mariel, for beta-ing this at the speed of light; to DianeM, for encouraging me to keep writing; and to all those who stick with the story-- it's greatly appreciated.

Chapter 22 - Revelations

6:22. Samantha blinks in the early morning light filtering through the curtains, and again closes her eyes against the bright intrusion. In a hazy, sleep-induced state, she realizes that Jack's arm is wrapped around her, his chest rising and falling in a regular rhythm. He feels content and wonderfully oblivious to her inner turmoil, and she wishes her life could be as uncomplicated and simple as his peaceful, unaware sleep.

Very carefully, she moves her fingers to brush against his chest hair, a small smile tugging at the corner of her lips. Asleep, he has a quiet innocence and vulnerability he'd never let transpire to anyone else. And for the moment she's happy to simply feel him against her; happy to imagine, to pretend, that they'll always have each other; and more than anything, happy to give him these few extra minutes of sleep where they can both forget that yesterday, a boy named Steven Anderson lost his life.

6:31. Lying quietly beside him, she lets her thoughts drift and allows questions and doubts to form in her mind. About what they've just done, where they stand now and where they'll stand tomorrow. She wonders if last night, this morning, this moment were bound to happen for a number of reasons that are too intricate to comprehend. She wonders if this is the last night they spend together until they can get away from the city again. If this is the last night they sleep in each other's arms, ever.

6:45. "Morning," a whisper interrupts her train of thoughts and she suddenly finds him watching her. She moves her head and smiles in spite of herself, feeling his fingers lightly playing on her skin and his smile echoing hers.

Gently, he brings his face to hers, their lips hovering close. He observes her for a moment, her eyes, the slight amusement in them when she realizes that he's still trying to wake up. She lifts a hand to softly caress the side of his face, dedicatedly tracing the contour of his lips with her thumb. He closes his eyes briefly but when he opens them, her expression has changed, and he feels the sadness in the way her hand stops its movement, almost clinging to him instead.

"Sam, no," he says, not wanting her to go there. He wants to pretend they'll have time for it later; that they'll deal with it when−

A loud, strident noise suddenly invades the room. Startled for a moment, they look at each other before he rolls aside, extricating himself from her embrace as he grabs his phone.

It's 6:52 now, Samantha notes as he mutters, "Malone."

For a brief second, she imagines him hanging up and sweetly kissing her, deciding that whoever is calling will have to wait. But the voice at the other end makes the hair on the back of her neck stand up. It's a voice she'll never forget. It's the voice that reminds her that there will always be something in the way. A case, a killer, a rulebook.

A wife.

She pulls the covers aside and draws a chair from the small table crammed in the corner of the room. The air is chilly, and yet she leaves the comfort of the warm sheets, bringing her knees close to her chest as she wraps her arms around her legs, watching him speak into the phone.

And it kills her that his marriage, which has always been, even in their more private, intimate times, present in both their minds, will always remain the one thing that she can never help him solve.

"Maria, I−" Cut off by the other person, he sits back against the headboard and pinches the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "I know you want to get the girls back to school and I know I said security would only be for a couple of days. Yeah, I _know _it's been more than two days−" Biting back anger, he moves the phone to his other ear, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed. "Yes, I promise it'll be over soon. Just− just let me talk to that security guard, ok?"

There's silence for a moment, Jack running a hand distractedly through his hair. Then he's back on the phone− "No, don't let them out of the house, ok? Yeah, no matter what the madam says. I'll try to call back in a couple of hours? Thank you."

He hangs up and then there's silence again− something like the ten longest seconds in the history of long seconds, or so it feels to her. But then again, what was she expecting? That they would make love again and he would magically stop being married? That after their trip to Johnstown, the one they'd both expertly pretended was undertaken purely for professional reasons, it would somehow be different?

It isn't any different.

When he moves to her, standing from the bed they just shared, she stands as well. She doesn't quite know what to expect, but she has a pretty good idea what he's going to say. It was a mistake. It was what I needed. Wanted. But the words don't come, and they're left with staring at each other, not knowing what to say or feel.

"When we get back to New York−" he starts, but she interrupts him.

"I know."

Their eyes meet for a long moment, then he looks away guiltily. "I'm sorry," he whispers, so low she has to lean forward to hear it. She recognizes the expression on his face as one she hasn't seen in a long time, and the memories force their way back into her mind, making her look away.

A little over a half hour later, they're back on the road, driving back to the city in an uncomfortable silence. The city will judge them, condemn them. The city will be like it always has been: loud, too busy, unfeeling, and without a place for them.

Her eyes remain fixed in the distance and she watches unseeingly the passing scenery. It feels like they've spent a lot of time in this car lately, observing each other but always avoiding the many unanswered questions between them.

"Jack?"

He doesn't say anything for a moment, then lets out a small sigh before he momentarily looks over at her.

"What do you think Irina's up to?"

His eyes go back to the road. "I wish I knew. I think right now−"

Abruptly stopped by, again, the ringing of his phone, he unclips it from his belt and hands it to her. Quickly understanding that he'd rather have her answer it than pull over, she lets out a small breath, afraid to find out who is calling.

"Spade."

"It's Danny," her colleague states, not sounding fazed at all that she's the one answering their boss's phone. "We have a problem."

o o § o o

"I need results_, _Jack," Paula Van Doren slams Steven Anderson's picture down on the conference table. "_Results._ That's what the taxpayers are expecting."

It's bad enough that she's come down here to comment on their failures; Samantha can't help but feel angry at the way Van Doren's making blatant comments on Jack's inability to stop Irina in front of his team.

"That little stunt with the media was _obviously _useless. And what was the point of going to Johnstown? I'm not going to question the methods used here, you know your job well− but I sure as hell am going to question their lack of success."

Vivian sets her pen down on the table, glancing between Jack and Van Doren; Martin waits in silence, but the frown between his eyebrows belies his outward calmness. Danny catches Samantha's eyes as if to say, _I warned you on the phone she's pissed_, then resumes his intense staring at the table.

Keeping his cool, Jack answers back, "We're losing time, so at least let my team work." He looks up, façade maintained, then in a cooler voice he warns, "But don't be surprised if I tell you I'm beginning to take this personally."

"You should," Van Doren says icily. Gaze making a quick circle around, she waves the rest of the team off. Danny and Martin rise, glad to be given an escape, and Vivian follows after a second of hesitation. Samantha quickly gathers her files, intent on leaving the room.

"Agent Spade, stay here."

Recognizing an order when she hears one, she sits back down. Chancing a glance at Jack seated to her left, she sees him visibly swallow.

"I was going through my mail this morning and I have something that might interest you," Van Doren's voice drips with sarcasm as she retrieves a picture from the folder she brought along, handing it to Jack without another word. Sam can tell this isn't going to be pleasant, and she's glad the rest of the team is outside. From a distance, she can see both Danny and Martin observing them through the glass panels, one apprehensive and the other curious, but at least they're not hearing this.

Jack waits a few seconds before looking down at the photograph, but doesn't pass it to Sam. His face expressionless, he explains, "Irina Connelly is after me."

"Yes, I'm aware of that."

"She had us followed and now she has a few pictures in her possession."

"_Pictures_?" Van Doren nearly chokes on the word. "There are others?"

The truth. "Yes."

"And should I just be prepared to receive them in my mailbox tomorrow morning?"

Her tone is getting lower and colder and Jack is slowly losing his composure. "Probably."

Sam fights against the sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. Keeping quiet isn't going to make things better, since it's tantamount to pleading guilty, but Jack raises a hand ever so slowly above his knee to stop her from speaking. I'll handle this, it seems to be telling her. I'm still your boss, this is all on me.

"Who else knows?"

"Danny."

"Is he going to be a problem?"

Jack looks at her for a moment. "No."

"How long have you known, Jack?"

"That's unimportant, Paula. What's important is that almost no one knows about this." He pauses. "It can stay that way."

"Because you think it's that simple?" Van Doren leans forward over the table, her voice now dangerously low. "You're putting me in one hell of a position," she says, her eyes murderous. "If these pictures get out and someone happens to, say, drop a word to the Washington office that I knew about you two the entire time, you're not the only ones looking for a job. I've closed my eyes before, I won't do it again."

Retrieving the picture from Jack's hands, and sliding it back into the folder, she glances once between the two of them before her eyes stop on Jack.

"I want you upstairs. Now."

o o § o o

"What do you have?"

Vivian and Danny share a glance that does nothing to improve Samantha's edginess. Quelling rising emotion, she lifts an enquiring eyebrow to emphasize her question, watching from the corner of her eye as Martin takes a call, moving out of earshot. Walking to her desk agitatedly, then moving back to the table in the center of the bullpen before going to stand beside the white board, she asks again, "What do you have?"

With obvious concern, Danny gives her a sympathetic smile and tries to lighten the loaded atmosphere. "Samantha, why don't you sit down before you hit someone."

Taking a calming breath, she mentally reminds herself to deliver that line back to Danny whenever the opportunity presents itself, but recognizes the legitimacy of the offer and sits.

"Steven Anderson's parents identified their son's body. Martin's still waiting to know if Irina was the one who murdered George and Jerry Darmon. There's been no activity on Irina's cell phone in the past few hours," Vivian lists. "We believe she got rid of it. The surveillance team still watching her previous headquarters hasn't reported anything. We have no hits on her credit card and the last bank account she used is empty. She has nowhere to go, not much cash, no accomplice, and no phone." With slight puzzlement, Vivian sends a fleeting glance in the direction of Jack's office, clearly noticing that he's not there. "Irina doesn't have many options left," she goes on. "I think it's safe to assume that either she'll contact us in some way, or she'll disappear, never to be seen again."

"Unless she has a backup plan," Martin reminds Vivian as he comes back. "I wouldn't put it past her." He snaps his phone shut, explaining, "The autopsy on Steven Anderson confirms that Steven was killed by Irina Connelly. She's still using the same knife, and he was drugged, probably as he stopped on the way to baseball practice. But there's more."

"What?" Samantha asks impatiently.

"He had a note on him. They found it on a piece of paper stuffed into his mouth." Sliding into his chair, as if exhausted, Martin finishes, "It reads _'I hope your boss likes them, Jack'_. And I have no idea what that means."

Samantha can't help it, but she remains frozen in the middle of the bullpen until Danny brushes his hand against her arm. _Jesus, Irina wasn't kidding when she said she'd use the pictures against Jack._

Danny takes her arm. "Samantha, let's get a coffee."

"What?" she finally reacts, still shaken. "No, I just had one and−"

"Come on," he says, leaving no place for discussion. Leading the way, he walks out of the bullpen and into the break room, Samantha following and not feeling at all like her usual self. Danny closes the door behind them, lets her take a few steps into the room, and comes to stand next to her.

"Did Van Doren get the pictures? Is that what this morning was about?"

She leans back against the soda machine, the low hum of the ventilators the only other sound around them, and nods slowly.

"How did she take it?"

"I don't know, Jack's in her office trying to…" she looks around for the right words. "Trying to work it out."

"But it's going to be okay, right? It's not like you and Jack have anything going on anymore." He looks up and sees the pain her eyes, and that alone makes him realize something. "Wait, what… what happened in Johnstown, Sam? Did you and Jack…?"

"Danny−" she says weakly.

His hand reaches to her, landing softly on her shoulder. She appreciates the gesture, and the small amount of support he's giving her, even though she doubts he can ever fully understand the situation between Jack and her, and all their unresolved feelings for each other.

"Well…" he clears his throat. "She obviously can't ask you to quit because otherwise I wouldn't have anyone left to tease about Christmas and hotdogs and paperclips," he jokes quietly, satisfied when she smiles in return. Taking a chair, he observes her, his eyes suddenly serious and clouded by a sadness Samantha doesn't remember having seen in him before. "You're not going to ask for a transfer, are you?"

For the second time in minutes, she remains very still as he looks at her.

"I'd understand, Samantha. I really would. I would hate it and I'd probably hate the rest of the world for it, but I'd understand."

Resting her head back against the cool glass of the vending machine, she sighs. "I can't leave, Danny. I can't leave the office and I can't leave this job and I'd hate to leave the team." She pauses, finishing in a breath, "I can't leave Jack."

o o § o o

Though it's obvious they've been having a conversation, no one from the team comments on Danny's thoughtful expression or Samantha's slightly red eyes when they emerge from the break room. In fact, neither Martin nor Vivian are in the bullpen, but they quickly find the rest of the team gathered in Jack's office, all of them bent over his desk.

Martin is the first to turn to them, explaining succinctly, "Irina's just left Jack a message."

Jack, raising his head, clarifies, "She wants to talk to me face to face in an empty warehouse not far from her initial headquarters. She wants me to be there at seven PM, unarmed and by myself."

Danny immediately reacts. "Jack, don't go. It's a trap."

"We're not sure," Vivian counters. It's clear from the look on her face that while Samantha and Danny were talking, Jack, Vivian and Martin discussed the situation. Apparently, all three of them have come to the conclusion that they need to chance it. "Irina has nowhere to go, she's being tracked all over the city. She probably wants some kind of deal."

"Strike a deal with this woman? No way," Danny shakes his head vigorously. "Jack, tell me you haven't agreed to this."

"I don't have a choice. This might be our only chance to catch her. We've failed to arrest her and we've failed to lure her out. I'll be wired anyway, and we'll have a SWAT team ready just in case."

"Jack−" Samantha shakes her head no. For the first time since they're in the same room again, she seeks out his eyes.

"It's our only chance," he says determinedly, purposefully looking down at the map on his desk. "I don't think Irina plans to kill me anyway; if she did I'd be dead by now."

The team remains silent for a moment. "Let's set it up," Jack decides, and Sam feels a chill running through her. He really is determined to see it through. He removes his gun and leaves it in one of his desk's drawers. "Samantha, talk to the tech guys for the details while I inform Van Doren. The warehouse is here," he hastily points at a street on the map. "There's a bar about a block away, here," he points at a perpendicular street. "That's where you'll be staying with the radio technician. Martin, organize everything with the SWAT team, I want a good backup. Danny, set up a perimeter and call for reinforcements− I want uniforms patrolling a three blocks radius. Viv, head there right now and make sure there are no civilians in the area. As for the equipment, I want everyone armed and operational with radios and bulletproof jackets."

o o § o o

He doesn't seem surprised when she enters the armory on the ground floor, closing the door and making her way past the first rows of lockers. It's a rather large room, designed for the purpose of being organized and efficient rather than elegant, its rows of lockers separated by standard plastic benches.

When she glimpses him, he's standing in front of his locker, double-checking his bulletproof vest and perhaps wondering, not for the first time, how bulletproof it really is. It reminds her of the first time she tried one on, wondering about guns and bullets and how exciting it all would be until one day− one day it stopped being fun and it became about not getting shot, not standing in the middle of a room exposed, and covering for partners who felt like they had a red bull's eye painted on their foreheads. There had been, she remembers, this strange look in her supervisor's eyes− a look that spoke, mostly, of lost lives and blood that stained walls and floors, proving to the rest of the world that these jackets would never be bulletproof enough.

"You, uh, heard about the note they found in Steven's mouth?"

She keeps it simple and professional, unsure of what's going on through his head at he moment. She can almost always tell by the look in his eyes, but right now he makes sure to keep them averted.

"Yeah, Martin told me," he replies after a moment, still intent on checking for loose stitches and frayed strings. "I told him it didn't matter. He wasn't thrilled by my lack of explanation, but he'll live."

She licks her lips, hesitating again. "How'd it go with Van Doren?"

In a strangely flat and neutral tone, he replies, "Bad." He lets the jacket fall on the bench beside him, his face rather pale. She can't be sure, but both his hands seem to be trembling. Looking at the tag on his locker, he takes a deep breath. "Samantha, we can't do this anymore."

The words speak for themselves, and they're perfectly audible, but for some unfathomable reason she wants him to clarify their meaning to her. Feeling the beginning of tears pricking, she whispers, "Do what?"

"This."

He looks at her.

This thing we have, she wants to say, will always be there. No matter how hard we try to pretend it will go away.

Their eyes are still locked and he suddenly looks aside. "Van Doren wanted one of us to resign. She changed her mind because I convinced her that it's… in the past. I lied to her," he shuts his eyes briefly, closing the locker door with a small metallic click, and Samantha wonders just how hard it is for him to say this. "But Samantha, it can never happen again."

He suddenly moves around the small bench, their bodies mere inches apart. And she needs to know… know what he would do if they could go back in time. If he'd make different decisions. If he'd choose his marriage instead of her, from the beginning, the way he should have two years ago.

"Jack… Do you regret it?" she asks softly.

"It's not about what we regret or wish anymore," he says only, raising a hand to brush against her shoulder. It stays there for a moment, his touch light and uncertain, indecision affecting the gesture. When his hand dances to her face, she barely keeps herself from leaning against his touch.

They both know they've been down here longer than necessary; that they have other things to do. But he's still running his fingers on the side of her face, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, seemingly lost in her eyes.

"You should go," he says quietly. His eyes ask her to leave, his breath on her face begs her to close the distance. She feels his hand travelling down to her waist, a surge of desire shooting through her, but she can't let it show.

He slowly retrieves his hand, looking away. In a troubled breath he whispers, "Just go, Samantha."

_tbc…_


	23. Warehouse

Mariel, thank you for the beta and your much appreciated comments. For eveyone still reading/reviewing, I'll do my best to update soon and make the last chapters worth the wait... Other than that, enjoy : )

Chapter 23 - Warehouse

"One two three," Jack tests the radio. "One two three."

Typing on a few control keys on his computer board to adjust the signal, the technician nods affirmatively. "Reception is good, sir. You're all set."

"Thanks, Max." Checking his watch with a rapid glance, Jack lets his eyes journey outside the bar's dirty windows, into the dark and outwardly peaceful night. "It's six fifty. Time to go," he decides.

Only briefly looking at the members of the team before he pushes open the door, Jack walks out of the bar where they've installed their headquarters and heads for the closest warehouse, a huge building across the street. Each equipped with portable radios, Danny and Martin follow him outside, but move around rather than inside the warehouse. Both have been instructed to keep a close surveillance on the back entrance. In the meantime, Vivian and Samantha will be posted on each side, which will make them the two closest agents to Max and the bar.

Samantha, heart racing faster than usual, begins to run parallel to the warehouse, using her flashlight to avoid tripping. The warehouse is at least two stories high, blocking most of the moonlight and behind her are other warehouses all with the same corrugated iron roofs. The buildings here are abandoned storage areas, and the streets and back alleys are dirty and filled with old, broken crates and boxes. It's a complex maze of dark, unwelcoming passages and dead ends.

"Agent one in position," comes Vivian's voice on the radio.

Reaching her destination, Samantha leans back against the nearby wall and echoes her colleague. "Agent two in position." She checks her watch in the dark. Six fifty-four. Two minutes later, Danny and Martin speak on the radio. Max, who centralizes the operations, adds, "Team in position."

Jack speaks, his voice reaching Samantha with perfect clarity. "I'm waiting. I don't have anything so far. Stay posted."

Samantha checks her watch again. Six fifty-seven. Jack sounds calm− almost too calm, and she has an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. What's going on through his head right now? How does it feel to be standing alone inside a dark warehouse, with nothing but a flashlight and a vest?

Six fifty-eight. Six fifty-nine. Sam is quite sure that Irina will be on time, but wonders why they haven't spotted her yet. How will she come? Will she be driving the White Sedan? Will she be on foot? Their orders are simple− apprehend her before she goes inside.

Danny's voice crackles over the radio. "I've got− never mind," he corrects. "Just a cat. Nothing moving on my side."

"Nothing here either," Martin adds.

Vivian and Sam confirm that there's no sign of activity around the other entrances. Shortly after, Samantha's watch beeps seven o'clock.

"I've got light," Jack suddenly says. His voice his hushed, careful. "Activity inside. Hold your positions."

For a second, Sam forgets to breathe− straining to hear, to distinguish something. But no other sound follows ; no footsteps, no screams. To her relief, there are no gunshots either.

"Hello, Jack."

"Hello, Irina," he answers in a voice that is quiet and measured and even has a bit of warmth in it, like he hasn't forgotten how to greet an old friend properly. Sam hears some static as he presumably moves, then Jack adds, "Long time, no see."

"I've had time to think about you."

"Evidently."

From the bits of conversation, Sam presumes that Jack and Irina are standing face to face. She can't figure out how Irina came in, though. An underground passageway? Or was she inside before they arrived, hiding in the warehouse? This isn't happening at all the way it should.

"Did you like my mail, Jack?"

Silence. "What do you want?"

"Well, well, well. Aren't we direct tonight. I remember you were quite the shy one back in College."

Irina's last words are followed by the distinctive clicking sound of a gun safety being removed, and Samantha find herself holding her breath once more.

"If you simply wanted to shoot me, you would have done so a long time ago. Why don't you put the gun down?" Jack suggests.

"Why don't you take you micro-transmitter off?" Irina replies.

A short silence follows. _Don't, don't, don't, _Sam prays. _God, don't._

The quiet stillness of the night is followed by the distinctive sound of tape being pulled off skin. Then there's more static, and a small crunching sound.

Then nothing.

_Damn it, _Samantha thinks. Now they've lost transmission. Max's voice on the radio confirms, "Signal lost."

A few moments go by− seconds turning into long, never-ending minutes. What's happening in there? Where is Jack? Is Irina still pointing a gun at him? What is the rest of the team doing?

Leaning against the wall, Samantha wills her heart to slow down. She doesn't need to faint right now. Time passes again. Her watch reads nine minutes past seven now, almost ten. Her flashlight is off, keeping her from being spotted, but the combination of darkness and silence is stating to weigh heavily on her shoulders. If Jack doesn't make it out alive… if Irina−

"This is Jack," her radio suddenly comes alive, and she rests her head back against the wall in relief. That relief, however, is quickly replaced by concern. Jack doesn't sound at all like himself− more like he's repeating instructions given by their serial killer. "I want everyone to go back to the bar," he speaks slowly. "Clear the way."

Sam swears under her breath. Turning on her flashlight, she starts to jog just as Jack continues, "Irina and I will come outside using the back entrance. I repeat, clear the way. We'll be leaving in her car. Do _not_ call in the SWAT team."

She breaks into a run, knowing what this means. Jack must still have a gun pointed at his head. Panting and breathless, she makes her way back towards the bar, arriving with Vivian. Danny and Martin, quick runners, join them a few seconds later.

"What the hell's going on?" Martin breathes.

Samantha and Danny stay grimly quiet as Vivian voices aloud what they're all thinking. "I think Irina has decided that Jack was her best chance to make it out alive."

Before any of them can talk about the seriousness of the situation, there's activity on their radio channel again, and Vivian turns up the volume for them all to hear.

"This is Unit three," a man's voice informs them. Unit three, which is comprised of two NYPD agents, is posted a couple of streets behind the warehouse. "We've got a white sedan driving our way. Two people inside."

Sam can picture it in her mind's eye− Jack driving with Irina behind him, pressing the muzzle of a gun against the back of his neck. She must have planned everything, leaving her car somewhere inside the warehouse before the rest of them arrived.

"They've turned off the headlights, they're driving blind… They're− shit, what the−"

Samantha barely has time to meet Vivian's eyes before a gunshot resonates into the night. Another one follows, more distant, then a scream. A high, bone-freezing woman's scream.

"The car's zooming away," the male agent's voice says after a pause. "It's too far for us to do anything. I− Jesus. Oh, Jesus. My partner's been hit."

o o § o o

Half an hour later, Danny, Martin and Vivian are bent over a large stretched map of Manhattan, trying to figure out, in a state of intense disquiet, what route Irina chose to escape. They've given at least ten dispatch calls, but it looks like Irina Connelly managed, once again, to slip through their net.

Danny and Martin are feverish, and Vivian paces the length of the empty bar as Max the technician tries to help as much as he can. They've already had Van Doren on the phone and half a dozen other officials. A kidnapped agent is a big blunder− there'll be a lot of pissed off people, not to mention an OPR investigation.

"Damn it," Martin slams a table. "They can't just have vanished like that."

"Hey, be careful," Danny retorts hotly, straightening the table. "No need to get angry."

"I'm not angry, I'm frustrated. That bitch shot an agent."

"She's not dead, it was a GSW to the arm," Danny retorts. "Why do you have to be so pessimistic?"

"Boys, calm down," Vivian interrupts peacefully.

Sam runs a trembling hand over her forehead. The last twenty minutes have been mind-numbing. Finding out that Jack was missing… gone… kidnapped. Where is Irina taking him? Central Park? Somewhere else? Why the hell hasn't he put up a fight? Is he wounded? Has Irina fired the first shot in the air, or is Jack perhaps−

She doesn't allow her thoughts to go there yet.

"Samantha," Danny calls quietly. "Samantha?"

She raises a panic-struck gaze to him. He can't understand. He can't know what's going on inside her head, nor the way she's imagining the worse. If she never sees him again… If he doesn't−

Danny places a hand on her arm. "I'm sure Jack's ok, all right?" he forces her to look at him. "Sam, listen to me. Jack knows Irina, he'll figure out how to solve this. Samantha," he says again, but she shakes her head and walks away.

She needs air. She needs space. If someone had asked her two months ago if she could keep her objectivity with Jack's life on the line, she would have said yes, absolutely. Just like he would have said yes about her. But two months ago she hadn't spent a whole night bleeding in a bookstore. Two months ago, Jack hadn't come to save her from the heat and the blood and two months ago… Jack wasn't missing.

She finds a quiet, dark corner and takes a seat, trying to calm her thoughts, sort them out. Being a mess won't help. Jack... Jack needs her to think straight, she keeps repeating to herself. _Think. _

o o § o o

It's almost nine when a flutter of activity suddenly breaks free− a cry, laughter and three very relieved voices.

"Jack!" Vivian exclaims.

Samantha rises but stays in the shadows, watching the scene with disbelief. A haggard-looking Jack is standing at the entrance of the bar, one of his hands on the frame of the door to steady himself.

"Are you okay?" Martin asks, immediately offering their boss a chair. "Where were you? What happened?"

Jack ignores the chair as well as the questions, and just stands there for a minute until Danny comes forward and chuckles. "Forgot the tie?"

Jack spares him a glance, a small, exhausted smile, and accepts Vivian's spontaneous hug.

"You look like you've been through hell," she comments.

"Yeah, well…" he says in a breath. Still, he doesn't seem to see the chair, or even Martin and Danny and Max. "Uh− he looks around. His face reveals alarm when he realizes that one person is missing. "Where's, uh− where's−"

The corners of Danny's mouth tighten imperceptibly; Vivian gives him a knowing look. Finally, Danny tilts his head aside. Jack, following the sign, turns to Sam as she walks forward.

"Hey," she says weakly. She wonders if she should say anything else− if there are times at work when rules and regulations and stares can go to hell and an agent can simply walk to her supervisor and wrap her arms around his neck to tell him exactly what she's been afraid of losing.

His voice is raw, his whisper quiet. "I heard a woman's scream when Irina fired the second time. I thought it was− he swallows.

They stare at each other across the few feet separating them, understanding suddenly flowing over Sam. He clearly thought she was the one who'd been shot. The agent Irina had hit was not far from the warehouse, and close to the position she'd previously occupied.

"Did Irina just let you go?" Vivian questions, breaking the charm.

Jack finally accepts the seat, and faces the team around a small table not unlike the one they have in the bullpen. "Irina doesn't just _let people go,_" he shakes his head tiredly. "She bribes, she trades, she bargains." Seeing that they're waiting for him to continue, Jack goes on, "She knows she won't be able to get very far now. She wanted a deal with me− among other things," he says gloomily.

"What kind of deal?"

A short silence follows. "She kidnapped someone else this morning," he whispers. "His name's Willy Shopper, he's twenty-three, lives alone in Queens. He's a Marine. I, uh, didn't believe her." He looks around at them, his gaze stopping on Sam as he adds, "So she showed me."

No one says anything, perhaps imagining what exactly Jack has been through tonight. If they have things to say, none of them voice them aloud, and Jack looks grateful for that. "She was, uh, she'd thrown him in the trunk. He, uh… he's alive. Willy was alive when she drove away." He catches his breath, then launches into more explanations. "She wants immunity for the crimes she's committed, and a plane ticket to another country, plus fifty thousand dollars in cash. Either that or she kills Willy."

"What did you say?"

"I said ok. There was really… nothing else I could do."

Vivian shuts her eyes momentarily. "Tell me we're not going to do it."

"She's more intelligent than you think," Jack says, not quite answering the question. "More intelligent than I expected. Her plan's good. It's really good," he repeats. "She just− a strange fire burns in his eyes, "She forgot that I used to know her. And that's her one fatal mistake." He looks at their perplex faces. "With the press conference, she was buying time. That's what she's doing again. Her bargain is fake, too."

"How do you know?"

Jack gazes over at Martin for a moment. "She doesn't want a bargain. She doesn't want to leave the country. She wants to kill Willy, leave his body in Central Park while we're dealing with DC officials trying to figure out how to handle this. Irina isn't buying a ticket to another country," he explains somberly. "She's buying enough time to murder three more Marines. Add Jeremy, Mathew, Ryan, Andrew, Alexei, Steven and Willy," he recites, "And it will make ten. Ten bodies, the 10 circles. She'll be done."

"That's even more… Machiavellian than I thought," Danny says slowly. "So what do we do now?"

Jack rises again, looks outside. It's completely dark, and they all know they won't be resting until morning. He declares, "We have to do something. Tonight."

"How?"

"I don't know. She gave me this, though, I'm sure it means something." Jack slides a hand inside his pocket and retrieves a small figurine. At first, Samantha is under the impression that it's one of those collection statuettes you can find in specialized shops, but then she realized it's just a small pony doll.

Martin stares at Jack's hand holding the pony as if he's being presented with something from another planet. "Why the hell did she give you this?"

Four clueless pairs of eye look back at him.

o o § o o

"I've got something."

There's always this moment of pause before the team reacts, nearly a whole second when they just stare at each other and wait for someone to move. Then Samantha jumps to her feet and the rest of them gather around Martin, hoping for some good news, possibly the break in the case they've been waiting for so long.

"Forensics have re-examined the evidence found in the George and Jerry Damon cases. They looked for similarities between George and Jerry's wounds and matched them to our more recent murders." Martin shows them the screen of the only computer they have to work with. They haven't had time to go back to the office, so they're still at the bar until they have something solid enough to be called a lead. "It means Irina Connelly hasn't killed seven times, but nine."

"It means," Jack weighs his words, a glum expression on his face, "That she's going to kill Willy, probably tonight." He swallows visibly. "So this is our very final chance. Irina won't stick around afterwards, she'll want to disappear once she completes her vengeance."

Samantha stands by his side, unmoving, watching the tension on his face. He has removed his bulletproof jacket and her eyes travel down to his slightly askew tie and the way he moves his neck from side to side, like his collar is too tight and he longs to loosen it. She wonders if this is the same tie he was wearing yesterday, and the day before; the same black tie that she slid around his neck back in the middle of nowhere when they drove back from Johnstown.

"Sam?"

She's too deep in thought to hear him the first time. Existential questions seem to arise from the simple observation of Jack's shirt and it's got to be a sign that she hasn't slept much in the past week.

"Samantha?"

His voice is slightly more urgent, slightly more pressing and she blinks as his eyes search hers, wondering where she's been for the past minute.

"I'm sorry, I… you were saying?"

Vivian has her phone in her hand and this uncomfortable, uncertain look on her face that contrasts with her usual self-confidence. "Willy Shopper's parents and sister are coming here."

"I'll talk to them," Danny offers to everyone's surprise, and Samantha is suddenly glad he's taking this assignment instead of her. Not that it would have come to her mind to refuse; but she's suddenly glad she doesn't have to be the one with tearful family members.

"Anything conclusive concerning the significance of the doll pony?" Martin wonders.

It's their only lead right now, and if baffles them all. Vivian shakes her head. "I checked Irina's background history again, extended it to her parent's and grandparent's. No one in her family rode horses, so unless you want to post agents in every stable around the state I doubt we'll find out much−"

"It's the carousel," Samantha whispers, almost to herself.

"What?"

A wave of nostalgia washes over her as she thinks back to her childhood and remembers riding on a carousel, the lights and the enchanting music; the past-paced, enthralling rhythm…

Martin squeezes her shoulder briefly. "You're a genius. She's a genius, isn't she Jack?"

The latter hesitates, rubbing at the side of his face. "If it really means she'll be at the carousel tonight… ok, yes, I suppose it would make sense. I'm sure she's still trying to, uh, make this some sort of sick game."

There's this strange light in his eyes that seems to fool the rest of the team into believing that he's agreeing to this theory, this explanation to Irina's strange gift, but Samantha thinks otherwise. She's seen that look before, the one that _wants _every one to believe it.

The one that says quite plainly he's got something else in mind.

"I'll, uh, talk to Paula and explain it to her," Jack decides. "We'll set up a full-scale surveillance and concentrate our efforts on the area around the carousel in Central Park. Danny," he motions for the phone by Danny's side, "Get me Van Doren on the line."

tbc…


	24. Circle of Ten

Writing this chapter and figuring out how to end the case has been a challenge, but it's also been a lot of fun. I want to thank everyone for reading and for the kind reviews. Special mention to Mariel for the beta.  
I'm thinking one more chapter after this one, and perhaps an epilogue... but in the meantime, enjoy!

Chapter 24 – Circle of Ten

"So what are you doing out here?" Danny comes to stand beside her just outside the bar, shivering as his breath meets cold January air and forms into a mist. "I didn't get any memo concerning eclipses or anything particularly interesting up there," he points at the sky with a knowing grin.

"I was just…" Samantha shakes her head, "I was just thinking. You know… taking five minutes and thinking."

Danny nods silently. His attempts at trying to lighten the atmosphere having failed miserably, he looks in the direction of the five or six police cars parked just down the street, and then back at Samantha. There is a lot of activity around them− agents pulling out maps and grids, carefully choosing patrol areas and dividing a large area of Central Park into squares where agents will be posted. The initially empty bar is now hosting several police chiefs, each of them ready to relay their orders to their team.

While Jack, Vivian and Paula Van Doren are inside deciding on the best tactics and distribution of resources, Samantha feels unpleasantly apprehensive. She can read the same unease on Danny's face as he blinks from the blinding police lights, his forehead creased.

"It's gonna be one hell of a night," he says.

Samantha observes him for a moment, tightening her FBI jacket around herself to shield her body from the cold. A humorless smile crosses her features as she answers quietly, "Isn't it always?"

o o § o o

"You know, thanks to you, half of the cops in this city are freezing their asses out here tonight."

Samantha smiles at Eric, glad that he's here even if she wishes for the circumstances to be different. They've parted on awkward terms, but he seems genuinely pleased to see her and she feels the same way.

This part of Central Park is quiet, perhaps more so than usual, the canopy overhead so dense that only a dim light penetrates the opaque layer of branches. According to plan, a total of thirty-two NYPD agents are spread over the area around the carousel, either posted at strategic intersections or pacing the most important pathways and alleys.

From what she's observed, the general mood is optimistic, at least when it comes to the foot agents who've been led to believe this will be an easy arrest. She fears, however, that the result of this and the fact that it is a grand scale operation is going to ease everyone into a false sense of security. The teams are spread thin over an area covering roughly one tenth of Central Park, and no one can be too careful tonight.

Samantha moves her hands to her pockets, trying to keep warm as she speaks to Eric. "What got _you _the honor of freezing you ass here?"

He rubs his hands as well, blows warm breath on them and shrugs. "Buddy of mine still in the NYPD keeps me informed of all the major operations going on and the ones that ask for extra manpower. I heard about this, I knew it was about Connelly, so I didn't hesitate." He looks at her for a second. "Tough case," he comments.

"Yeah… She's been hard to track down."

Eric nods, putting his gloves back on and adding, "She's also unpredictable."

Samantha sighs. "That, too. God knows she deserves to take a bullet."

His gloved hand stops on her arm, and he says quietly, "No, Samantha. You don't wish that."

"I thought you believed in the death penalty," she says wryly.

"Yeah, well… I used to."

She looks at him for a long moment. Nothing about his new behavior makes sense, but then again, nothing's really made sense for a long time. "What changed?"

"This job," he says somberly. "Too many dead already. I don't wish that on anyone anymore." He shakes his head, as if to rid himself of the thought as he moves his flashlight to the other end of the dark pathway, scaring away a bird. A few seconds later, another agent shows up, walking slowly toward them.

Checking his watch, Eric tells Samantha regretfully, "My turn to walk. Good luck."

o o § o o

She's lost into the contemplation of a fountain when Jack arrives, his fingers nervously running through his hair, over and over again, thinking about the night, the darkness, Irina Connelly and the young man whose fate is in their serial killer's hands.

"You have your gun?" he wonders.

She searches his eyes, seeing nothing but tiredness there and a rather neutral look as he turns off his flashlight, using hers instead to save the batteries. Not quite understanding the point to his question, but curious to find out why he wants to know, she nods.

"Walk with me," he whispers.

The park seems bigger at night, even more so now that it's empty, the occasional midnight owl having fled from the heavy police presence. There are just dark, gloomy pathways that circle around trees and bushes, benches, isolated fountains and closed hotdog kiosks.

As the darkness presses around them, Samantha lets her thought drift, thinking about the reason they're here tonight and involuntarily replaying Irina's crimes in her mind. George and Jerry Damon come first, two brothers she would never meet except through the brown, old photographs in their files. Jeremy comes next, the man Irina killed in 86 and whose grave she visited once.

She thinks of Matthew as well, the fragile, smiling young person who played the piano, liked basketball, and kept a picture of his sister in his school bag. Then there's… Ryan. Ryan Carthy, who'd made the mistake of going running one chilly December morning and never made it back home.

Jack is walking quickly albeit cautiously, but everything is calm and it's difficult to believe that Irina is out here somewhere, lurking in the shadows. Samantha points at a deflated football abandoned on the side of an alley and catches a hint of a quick smile on Jack's face.

Lost in her thoughts again, she picks up on where she left. Andrew Whitewood. She'll remember that grayish video footage of him playing flipper at a bar; remember that this is the only moment she ever saw him alive. She will also remember Alexei and his girlfriend, remember her from the hospital as tears clouded her eyes and she begged Samantha for an answer that could never be found.

There's Steven.

He comes last, for now. He will remain, perhaps, the one who will haunt her the most. Her worse Daymare. Because his death seemed worthless two days ago and still worthless today. They all are, but she has come to the realization that there is little she could have done for the others. With Steven, she will always struggle, always wonder. And never be free of his mother's broken whispers or his father's hand in hers, asking why of all the young men in the world, it had to be his son.

Now that Willy is missing, she prays she won't have to add him to the list.

They've been walking for a while now− ten, fifteen, perhaps even twenty minutes. From the lack of hesitancy in Jack's walk, she guesses he know exactly where he's going, but she wonders why they've taken an alley so far from where Irina is supposed to show up; from where they're supposed to be.

He stops abruptly, briefly looks sideways at her, and averts his eyes almost immediately, but not before she catches the note in his eyes− honest and tortured, and it pains her to be able to do nothing.

They seem to have arrived someplace important for him to be, but she can't figure out why. "What are we doing here, Jack?"

"Irina," he states, and she doesn't understand until he clarifies, "We're finding Irina."

She watches his hand close the distance to her arm. And she's sure he can feel the tremor that runs through her at the contact, that jolt of electricity she only ever feels with him.

"Here," he hands her his gun.

Frightened by her own impulse to push the gun back to him, she nonetheless takes the Glock and stares at him. "What are you doing?"

"The right thing." He averts his eyes and turns away.

Breathless, she walks around him, needing an explanation. "Jack?"

He shakes his head, searches for the right words, the right way to do this, to say this. "Irina's not going to be by the carousel tonight." And when she still doesn't understand, he adds, "She's completing her circle."

"What? No," Samantha shakes her head. "No no no… Jack, she gave you a pony doll, it means she'll be by the carousel, she'll−"

"She's going to be here," he makes a gesture to point at the open expanse of grass in front of them− the place that will close the circle of bodies Irina has been making. "The doll was… it was to lure us in the wrong direction."

Her mind begins to understand; her heart refuses to consider what he wants to do. "No_._"

"There's no other way."

She can see it in him, the need to end this, to finally, finally confront Irina and put a final period to this case. But it's not even the time−

"She's not even at ten bodies yet," she tries to stall him. "You know Willy is the ninth."

He smiles a sad smile. "I think she's planning on being the tenth, Sam. I, uh… I can't let that happen."

It seems even now, even when they've been following Irina for so long, Samantha can't make a sense of her, and only Jack understands who she is; how her mind works. For perhaps the first time, she feels completely unable to understand someone's foreign logic, or the way Irina's minds works against, and around the most basic assumptions that can be made and inferred from the way serial killers usually think.

It dawns on her that Jack is right; that there is no other option and that either way, tonight can only end with a confrontation between the two of them.

Still.

It doesn't give him the right to risk his life like that.

"Jack−"

"I love you."

Her heart feels like it's about to stop from the sheer power of that declaration. He holds her gaze for a long, delicious moment, not taking the words back, just looking into her eyes.

She wants to say something before he goes, but there's nothing she can think of that would be appropriate for this moment.

He turns around and walks away slowly, into the shadows. And all Samantha can do is grip her flashlight, hold his gun, and feel her heart beating frantically in her chest.

o o § o o

Irina doesn't come with a bang or a flash of light or anything that would make it a grand arrival. Samantha expected it to be as such− a quiet brushing of leaves, a small flashlight and high heels− always those heels, blatantly contrasting with the expected attire of a coldblooded assassin.

They stand face to face for a moment, twenty or so feet away from the other, both with their arms at their side in apparent defenselessness.

"Hello, Jack."

It's always the same greeting, like a routine, a habit− and he keeps it simple and exact. Quiet. Casual. "Hello, Irina." Then, after a beat, "You're alone."

From this distance, Samantha can't get a good angle on Irina without revealing her position, but she can guess their killer's invisible smile. "Disappointed?"

"Not really."

Irina scans the trees around them, then directs her cold blue-eyed gaze back on Jack, stating, "You're not alone."

He lifts the hems of his jacket instead of answering, lets it fall back and flap in the freezing wind. He sounds calm, perhaps calmer than he's been in a long time, sensing that the conclusion of their case is near. "I came unarmed."

"That's not very smart, Jack…" She reaches inside her own jacket and draws out a gun, not pointing it at him in particular but using it as a subtle threat. "Not very smart."

"Yeah, well…" a twisted smile appears on Jack's lips. "You were always the smart one."

She concentrates on his face and seems to remember something. For a long moment, her mind seems lost somewhere in the distant past.

"But you're right," he says, breaking the spell that seem to have fallen over as memories washed through her. "My team is here."

Alarmed, Samantha quickly glances behind her. The area around them is definitely empty. The _team_ Jack is talking about is by the carousel, miles away. Keeping a pointless watch on a worthless target. She could technically take out her radio and call them, but it would be insane of her to risk compromising her position. Beside, how much time would it take the boys in blue to get here? Five minutes? Ten? There just isn't enough time.

"Never been a good liar, Jack." Irina takes a step forward, as if to give an air of friendship, or familiarity, to the situation. "I suppose it doesn't matter," she adds, and Samantha can swear she hears regret. "You won. Willy's in a storage area uptown that I rented under the name Mrs. Sarah. There's a lock on the door, combination is 2-35-21. He's a bit sleepy from the drugs, and tied up, but I didn't harm him."

Jack doesn't move. "You're giving him away so easily?"

"Why wouldn't I? He's of no use to me."

Jack tries to keep from frowning, but even from where she stands, Samantha can see the confusion on his face. He says quietly, "I don't believe you."

"You should. He wasn't meant to die tonight."

"Nobody is _meant_ to die."

"It's fate, Jack," she says, speaking his name again. And again, it sounds tinged with regret. "It's just fate. I couldn't kill him. Besides, he looks like you."

Another joke, another inside joke, Sam realizes. It makes her insides squirm in a way she wouldn't have thought possible. Jack cracks a grin and actually laughs, right there in the middle of the night with a gun trained on him by a woman they both know is capable of the worse crimes.

"And your circle?"

"It will be completed."

"You would need two more bodies."

She corrects, "Just one."

"Two."

Shaking her head, she waves the gun. "Nine bodies, not ten, Jack. Not so smart on this one. You should know that the gang of the Ten Circles were only nine." She pauses for better effect. "The tenth was God. And it still is."

Her reasoning still means she expects someone to die tonight, and Samantha has half a mind to try and shoot Irina from where she is. But God, if she shoots in the dark and Jack−

"I'll tell your mother."

He struggles for a moment, makes a conscious effort to keep his voice steady. "What?"

"I'll tell your mother, up there," Irina shows him the sky and the stars, raises her gun and in a slow gesture, turns it to point to her temple. "You're a good person, Jack. You're everything she'd have wanted you to be."

His façade finally cracks, a tear breaking free from the corner of his eye and trailing a path down his cheek. "Please don't do this."

"It's… it's not your fault, Jack. It's supposed to end this way."

"Irina−"

She smiles at him, right there under the moonlight and the thousand stars all pointing at her sins, at his mistakes, at the two people on earth who'd once been friends and had found each other again at midnight, had seen the pain in each other's eyes and tried to help, for the last time.

She smiles at him and she smiles at the world, locks away the memory of him in the back of her mind, remembers the secrets they once shared when the stars were brighter and the moonlight felt like the warm caress of the sun on an ordinary afternoon.

And then she presses the trigger.

_tbc…_


	25. Life goes on

A/N : Ok, here it is. Thanks for sticking up with the story and putting up with the wait. I'll also seize this opportunity to thank Mariel for all her help ; Diane, for reminding me I had to post… and Helen, I hope we'll continue exchanging mails !

To everyone reading this-- you've truly been the best readers and reviewers; you've encouraged me to keep writing and who knows… I might even come up with another story ! In the meantime, enjoy.

Chapter 25 – Life goes on

In a few months, a few years, perhaps even when she's very old and has forgotten many other things, she'll look back and remember tonight. She'll remember the last moment, the last few seconds it took Irina Connelly to end her existence.

When you work this job and live its victories and failures, you come to expect such ends. Years of experience make you look over those events as something usual and expected and you file them all away in boxes, along with the other cases long gone or lost or forgotten.

But not this case; not tonight. There's something worth remembering, something to be said about Irina Connelly's tragic end. Tonight, this moment, the darkness and lights and the complete silence are vivid images that will later stand out from the ordinary, monotonous mediocrity of most cases.

There is not much for her to say, not much to do, except stare in shock as Jack holds their serial killer's lifeless body in his arms. It's a sad, unexpected scene, and it looks and feels completely surreal. A serial killer has been stopped, yes, but in Samantha's mind it will never qualify wholly as a success. She'll remember this mostly, the contradictory emotions running through her; she'll remember the silence and then the sounds− someone speaking into a radio, then two, three, ten agents surrounding her, questioning her, shaking her.

Danny, first. He takes her arm. His voice is quiet, then strong and loud, breaking through her stupor. It's painful and almost aggressive, and his confusion and concern suddenly flood her mind.

He makes her sit down on a nearby bench and a jacket too large for her is wrapped around her shoulders. Danny's mouth moves, asking if she's okay, if she needs anything, if she can tell him what happened, but the sentences don't quite make sense and she stares at him with a blank face.

"Samantha— SAM!"

That finally manages to get through to her and she finds her voice. It's faint, and sounds more like a croak than anything else. "Danny, Jack…?"

She's thankful she doesn't have to repeat the question, as he seems to understand, glancing over his shoulder with a frown, his eyes trying to see what's happening. "I think he shot Irina."

She gathers what's left of her energy to shake her head. "That's not possible, Danny," she whispers, holding up Jack's gun for him to see. She stares at it for a moment, turns it in her hands. The weapon is cold against her palm and weighs less than her own, which can mean only one thing.

It isn't loaded.

o o § o o

"OPR going to look into this shooting?"

Recognizing Martin's voice, Samantha holds back before entering the bullpen. He's talking to Vivian. The rest of the office is empty, their team the only one left.

"No, I don't think OPR is going to waste time on it." Vivian answers. "Irina shot herself. Willy was found alive. There were no screw-ups or cover-ups here. "

_Right, _Samantha thinks to herself. _My two hands wouldn't be enough to count the number of cover-ups._

"How's Jack?"

There's a short silence, followed by what Samantha can only guess is a shrug. "He'll get through this, you know him. It might take some time, but he'll be fine." Her voice becomes softer. "Go home, Martin. This can all wait until the morning."

"You sure?" Martin wonders politely. His voice, however, is a dead giveaway. He's tired, just the way they all are, and wishes nothing more than to rest.

Samantha quietly retreats back into the shadows as both he and Vivian gather their belongings and leave, entering the elevator together.

Once she finds herself alone in the bullpen, she takes her usual seat at her desk and finally allows her thoughts to drift.

_So, this lady, she was really gonna kill me?_

Her eyes snap open as Willy's young, confused voice rings in her ears. He'd been found gagged and dizzy from the drugs a couple of hours earlier, cold and scared but physically unharmed. On some level, Samantha knows, Willy understands exactly what's happened; he understands that he's been lucky; more so than the others.

She doubts, however, he'll ever comprehend entirely what it is he survived. Somehow, she believes it's better if he never finds out.

Sighing, Samantha turns her attention to her desk. It's appallingly cluttered; files, notes, lists and various papers are spread over the surface in completely disorganized piles. Determined to sort out the mess, and not quite ready to go home just yet, she throws away an empty donut box, disposes of a pen that stopped working at least two days earlier, and starts tidying up the rest.

o o § o o

As her heels click on the tiles, Samantha hears the sound echo in the empty corridors, preceding her as she exits the bullpen with the clear intent to reach the elevator and go home. With luck, the traffic will be light and she'll make it in time to get a couple of hours of sleep, a fresh change of clothes, and her unhealthy dose of caffeine before she has to come back and affront the massive amount of paperwork they'll have to get done before the case is officially closed.

Half an hour earlier, she didn't feel like leaving; now, tiredness has finally kicked in and her aching limbs remind her that her body needs rest.

As the door of Jack's office looms into view, however, she halts. She certainly is in no shape to address this now, but waiting won't make it easier. And, more importantly, they've postponed this long enough.

Lightly tapping her knuckles against the glass panel, she sees surprise, then apprehension flash across his face as he looks up at her. Just as quickly she looks away, resolutely fixing her eyes on the floor as he sits upright, pushing aside a folder he's been blankly staring at for the past half hour.

They haven't spoken since the team came back, haven't faced each other since Central Park and she almost expected his shirt to still be covered with Irina's blood. But this one is white and clean and for once, he sits behind his desk with no tie or jacket over it.

"Hey," she whispers.

He doesn't quite look at her. "Hey."

She begins quietly, "I heard they wanted to take you to Mercy to get you checked out."

"I didn't need that."

She nods, silence falling between them. Moving closer to his desk, she hands him his gun back and, trying hard to keep the accusation out of her voice, tells him, "It's empty."

He takes the weapon slowly. "Thank you."

"Jack, can I just say…" but she stops, feeling her insides crumble as their eyes accidentally meet. Her emotions rise, but she keeps her voice calm. "You willingly risked your life tonight. You… you brought along an unloaded gun and gave it to me. And she was armed."

"I know."

"Damn it, Jack." Her anger flares up. All the emotion she's kept bottled in suddenly comes to the surface, breaking free. "When are you going to understand that people care about you?"

She sees the pain in his swiftly changing to confusion at her quiet admission. "What is this about?" he whispers.

She's angry, but she also owes him an explanation for her strange behavior. Her shoulders suddenly slumping, she gathers what's left of her energy to quietly admit, "I… I tried to convince myself that I'd moved on. In the past months, I just let… I let my feelings for you sort of… fade. I _wanted_ to move on. But then we had these cases that came in and we had to work together again, and do our job and do it together." She lifts her eyes to him. "And I fell in love with you all over again."

He swallows. "Samantha…"

"But I−" Her lips quiver slightly. "I can't live like that, Jack. I can't live with someone that gambles with his life the way you did tonight. The way you did yesterday." Her voice becomes quiet. "The way you did with Barry."

His eyes snap back to hers and he rises to his feet behind his desk. He's more tired than either of them has realized just yet, but his legs hold him as he says sadly, "What I did with Barry kept you alive."

It's her turn to swallow. "It could have made you dead." Her eyes search his. "If you really mean what you said to me… If you really mean that, Jack, we'll find a way to fix this. But you have to promise me you'll never risk you life like that again. Ever."

She waits. When only silence answers her, and stretches on, she gives a small, defeated nod, feeling tears gathering in her eyes. They stand face to face in a numb silence for what seems like hours until she looks away.

"I'll give you some time to think." She walks to the door and stays there for another few seconds, in the darkness of the doorway, her fingers against the frame. Before she leaves, a last whisper escapes her lips, just loud enough for him to hear. "But not forever."

o o § o o

Despite her resolve to sleep through this and recuperate, early morning finds Samantha awake and staring intently at her alarm clock. It won't ring until seven, which gives her another fifteen minutes in bed, but she's no longer asleep. Instead, she keeps mentally kicking herself. What she said to Jack the previous night was not what he needed to hear. She meant everything, but her timing had been off. He needed her comfort, her help to deal with Irina's death and… and she had somehow ignored that fact and blamed him.

She thinks back to a few years earlier and what happened back then. It was work first, between her desk and his, the quiet corridors at night and the coffee machine in the break room. It was a car, his car, a hotel room, her room. Rendezvous always accompanied by deep, raw emotions, a need to forget; feelings awoken by a whisper, a touch, a kiss.

She remembers the day it changed, the night he came after a case had been successfully solved. That evening, he wasn't looking for reassurance; he didn't have the excuse that usually involved a gun, blood and a dead body. That night, they couldn't hide what we were doing behind the obvious reasons that had always seemed, somehow, sufficient to justify their actions− pain and anguish and a desperation soothed only by the solace found in each other.

_Do I want to start all over again?_

Deep inside, she knows the answer.

o o § o o

When she arrives at the office, several messages are waiting for her. The first one is from Holly and Mike, wishing her good luck for the future— they've left a message on each of the team members' phone, a delicate attention Vivian is the first to comment on.

The second one is from Eric, saying he hopes she's doing all right and that he'd be happy to go get a drink with her someday, in a totally disinterested way. It sounds like he wants to remain just friends, which suits her just fine; she would have hated to completely fall out of touch.

The last message she listens to twice before she digs into paperwork. It's from Willy. She'd handed him her card the previous night in case he needed anything, and it seems he needed to thank the team. He'd probably been brought up to speed on the horrible things his abductor has done in the past week. So much for ignorance.

Danny, Vivian and Martin are all at their desks, looking a lot more refreshed than the previous night, and a fresh donut box stands on the bullpen table. Samantha gladly accepts the one offered to her; she wasn't hungry earlier, but her stomach had begun to grumble loudly when she'd arrived.

The mood is quite light, the case over, and Danny, Vivian and Martin are happy to share some banter while they have to finish their reports.

"Do I leave out the fact that I bought a burger before we raided Irina's warehouse?" Danny jokes, his pen making circles in the air.

_Do I leave out the fact that I slept with my boss?_

Jesus. She has to stop thinking about Jack. It was bad enough this morning, when they barely said hello as he arrived in the bullpen and announced to the team that they had until lunch to finish their reports. Thankfully, he had retreated to his office quickly, saying he had calls to make, and no one else had gone missing.

Flipping over a page, she realizes she's done with this part of her report. Finding her box of paperclips, she picks a blue-colored one and nearly drops the box. Oh, for Christ's sake. Jack's paperclips. Does _everything_ she owns relate to him?

o o § o o

She's deep in thought when he enters the break room. A fresh mug of coffee and a half-eaten snack bar sit ignored on the table in front of her while she checks and re-checks her report.

He watches her for a moment, then he grabs a chair. "You don't have to say anything, but at least hear me out." Seeing her quietly agreeing, he takes a deep breath. "I've spent the past six hours thinking about what you told me. I've spent the past six hours thinking that you were wrong," he smiles sadly. "And the past ten minutes realizing that you were right." He looks at her in the eyes. "I know you think I was irresponsible."

She shakes her head feebly. "Jack−"

"I know you didn't want me to risk my life the way I did," he goes on, "And I know why. The thing is, I was never able to tell you what I felt for you. Not when we were together, not in the bookstore when I thought I would never see you alive again. Not until last night."

Leaning back, he spreads his hands. "I know you misinterpreted what I told Van Doren. I didn't tell her everything was over between us because I believed it; I did it because… there are some things I want to remain between you and me. Some things I don't want Van Doren to know. Some things I don't want _anyone _to know because I'm so afraid we'd have to stop."

Mixed emotions wash over her face. Quietly she explains, "You went back to your wife and you're here now and I− I don't know anymore, Jack."

His reply is soft. "I do."

The dreadful events of the night, the need to hold on to him, to his hands and his eyes and his voice makes her forget about the place, and she moves her hand to his across the small table.

"I'm sorry," she whispers. "I should have been there for you last night, instead of just blaming you."

He doesn't retrieve his hand. "You had every right to."

Automatically, her hand moves to his ring, her thumb staying there. He seems at a loss for words− she has this effect on him, just like he has the power to reduce her to silence whenever he wants to.

He tangles his fingers with hers. "Maria and I talked this morning."

Unable to completely decipher the small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, she decides that she likes it nonetheless.

"Security's been lifted off her and the girls, obviously. But not being together this week… it made us both realize some things. In the end, we both agree we'll fight less if we don't have to fight for our marriage anymore." He takes another deep breath, the decision having obviously been difficult. "It'll be hard on the girls, so we'll have to figure how to tell them. But we're not going to pretend we can make it work anymore."

It takes Samantha a moment to find her voice. To say she's stunned is an understatement. "Where will you be staying?"

"That's one of the things we'll have to decide. I can't stay at the hotel forever."

Her heart beating fast in her chest, Samantha hesitates, then plunges. "Do you want to come over tonight?" she offers quietly.

He holds her gaze, their hands now comfortably holding each other. "Yes. I'd like that."

o o § o o

"A hot chocolate, another box of donuts, the Sports Channel, and at least three uninterrupted hours of gawking at the TV and doing absolutely _nothing _that involves thinking_._" Danny grins at Martin, throwing him his football. They've been doing this for the past ten minutes, talking about what they were going to do in the afternoon, and it would have driven both Samantha and Vivian crazy if it hadn't been for the contagious cheerfulness of the boys.

"Picking up Reggie at school," Vivian explains, happy to share their enthusiasm. "We'll walk to the park, get some ice cream, and wait together for Marcus to come home."

"Some family time, that's nice," Martin comments. Then, throwing the ball back to Danny, "Running, stopping for a coffee, and calling a couple buddies uptown to grab a beer."

"You better watch out," Danny comments off-handedly. "We all know what happens to handsome runners who stop for drinks."

There's a moment's silence, then both Martin and Vivian laugh. This is it. Finally. That's how you know a case is completely filed away; when you can finally let go and joke about it. None of them will forget Ryan Carthy, the Marine gone missing as he went for a jog to Central Park. But it's time to let him go. One less nightmare. One less daymare.

"What about you, Samantha?" Martin wonders, turning off his computer.

She replies neutrally, "I'm not sure yet."

"What, no crazy dancing, clubbing and dating?" He catches Danny's football one last time before he puts it away in a drawer, keeping it for the next time.

Samantha smiles, but doesn't answer.

_If only you knew._


	26. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

Her balcony provides her with a large view of the city; a view of the variety of buildings and streets making New York the maze it's always been. When the door slides open to reveal Jack, she's lost in the contemplation of a line of yellow cabs advancing so slowly they look like they're not making any progress at all.

He has a purpose in his walk, a newfound determination. Leaning against the railing with his shoulder brushing against hers, his eyes focus on her face. "I haven't actually said it, so I want you to hear it." His tone is solemn. "Samantha, I will never inconsiderately risk my life again. Ever."

Her lips stretch into a smile, and he watches the striking transformation on her face. She looks beautiful. And before he even has confirmation that she's accepted this as both an apology and a promise, he envelops her in his arms. The contact makes her close her eyes and she sighs into his jacket, thinking she never wants him to let go.

"It's freezing," he says against her, trying to communicate some of his warmth by gently rubbing her shoulders.

"It's actually warm."

"Since when is snow warm?" he wants to know, his voice curious.

Lifting her head to meet his eyes, she answers, "Since you're here."

He says nothing for a moment, lets the meaning of her words go straight to his heart. Feeling her hands so cold on his neck, he offers, "You want to come inside?"

"Mm- just a moment. Let me enjoy this a little longer," she nuzzles closer against him, and he gladly complies. "How was the office when you left it?"

"Completely deserted," he says against her ear. "I dropped by Van Doren to hand her my conclusions on the case." He pauses slightly. "She gave me the picture of us back."

Samantha looks at him, surprised. "She did?"

"Yes." His tone turns mischievous. "What do you say we keep the three of them?"

"I think that's a quite dangerous decision, agent Malone," she equals his tone, knowing nobody will have to know. They'll keep the pictures. And make new ones.

"We'll have to be careful, though."

"I think I can live with that."

They look at each other, again. A few snowflakes begin to fall, the first ones melting immediately, leaving watery trails on his jacket. The sky overhead is turning darker, and she can't see the stars anymore. "I was out here on the balcony looking at… at the night. You know what Danny says about stars?"

Jack nods gravely against her. "He names them after people."

"After people he loves," she corrects.

"Yeah… Hanna and Kate are up there."

She smiles as well. "I found a star for Danny and one for Viv and one for Martin. And then Eric's got one, and so do my mom and… and my sister." She looks at him, gestures toward the starlit vault of Heaven. "But you, Jack, you've just got the rest of the sky."

"God, Sam, I…" He honestly doesn't know what to say, so he gently tightens his arms around her body, telling her what this means to him.

"There are a lot of things that are uncertain and a lot of things I'm not sure about," she touches his cold cheek with her hand. "But I'm sure about you."

"I'm sure about you too, Sam. When we were together… you have no idea the number of hours I spent awake at night with your arms around me, just watching you sleep… and thinking I had no right to be this happy. I was, Samantha. I was happy. And you have no idea what I'd give… to get that back. To be happy again." He brings his fingers to her face and loses himself in her eyes. "After this week; after Irina… I realized that there are things worth living for."

"Like what?"

"Love," he whispers. He brushes flakes off her shoulders and moves his hand back to her face, keeping it there for a moment. "Last night everything became so clear… it wasn't Maria I wanted to talk to. It wasn't Maria I wanted to be with, it was you. Because it's always been you." Softly, he adds, "It will always be you."

_The End._


End file.
